


Grab Bag III

by anexcessoffeels (headbuttingbears)



Series: The Grab Bag [3]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Abduction, Airplane Crashes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Desert Island, Drunken Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Dates, Flirting, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Mugging, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnant Sex, Secret Divorce, Undercover, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 49,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5667073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/headbuttingbears/pseuds/anexcessoffeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A final collection of unfinished Barba- and Rollins-centric fic. Topics range from "what if Barba and Rollins became jogging buddies?" to "what if they were trapped on a deserted island??" to "what if he was abducted???"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gen, the one where Rollins and Barba become jogging buddies

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I'm never finishing these. They are OLD. Very old. Half of them date back to s16; they're in order of least to most recent. As usual: sudden starts and stops throughout, and various quality levels.
> 
> Inaccuracies are likely.
> 
> As always: for Jenny. It's been wild.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen in function, references Rollins/Amaro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is EXTREMELY old. Set after s16's "Forgiving Rollins," I had this whole idea during the January hiatus to write this fic where Rollins gets her shit together and also bonds with Barba after becoming jogging buddies. I have a long outline for it and I'm still very fond of it but a lot of my enthusiasm evaporated when the show jossed me so hard. Which makes me very sad because I like it a lot. It also exposes me for the massive Rollinswife that I am, but I think y'all already knew that.
> 
> Spot the extremely Sylvia Plath/Bell Jar-inspired scene and win... The satisfaction of being literate.

On the fourth day into her three weeks off, Rollins woke up stone sober and alone. The dreams faded quickly, but the tears on her face took longer to dry, and she curled up on her side, staring out at Frannie in her dog bed, who was telegraphing the kind of perfect concern only dogs could manage.

"S'alright," Rollins whispered to her, voice rusty with the early morning. "It's alright."

Frannie did not look like she believed her.

 

Even after the sun came up it was still cold that morning. Too cold for the dog, who did her business with alacrity and promptly demanded to go back inside. But Rollins was feeling an itch – not _the_ itch, not the one that pushed her to put it all on the Knicks or have another drink when she should've been calling a cab. It was a restlessness, a sense of being too big for her apartment, and it wasn't even 7AM when she laced up her running shoes.

"Do you want me to leave the TV on for you?"

Frannie, sprawled across the couch, was giving her a look like she'd lost her damn mind. After two days of bumming around the house with nothing but her own thoughts and a dog for company, Rollins was starting to feel like she had. Frannie was probably just remembering the icy sidewalks.

Rollins left the shopping channel on for her. "Don't go over budget," she called on her way out the door.

 

She warmed up once she got going, following her usual route. It felt good to get out, get moving, even if she could see her breath in sharply defined clouds before her, lit by the wan morning sunlight.

She saw Barba long before he ever would have seen her. He was ahead of her, keeping a steady pace, and she briefly considered turning around, self-consciousness sparking in her belly. But then there wasn't really any reason to avoid him – with the trial was over, the worst had to be behind them. No more empty threats of subpoenas, definitely no chance of guilt-trips. It had been days since their trial prep session; the memory of intimacy, of agonizing weakness, had already faded. Mostly.

Rollins sped up and overtook him easily before she could cave and go in the other direction.

"Morning, Counselor," she said.

He looked totally unsurprised to see her. "Morning," he said, sounding ever so slightly out of breath. His cheeks, like his ears and nose, were very pink. He should have had a hat on, she thought.

She slowed her pace to match his. "Nice day for a run, huh?"

Barba rolled his eyes. "Don't patronize me."

She raised an eyebrow at his tone. Not a morning person? "I didn't-"

"What I am doing," he said very deliberately, "Is not, by any stretch of the imagination, 'running.'" His airquotes were heavy with irony.

She laughed, and the fact that they were moving slowly enough that she _could_ laugh proved his point. "What would you call it then? Freezing to death in slow motion?"

"I'd call it a sad exercise in false optimism," he said. "My new year's resolution, and I was _not_ stalking you, by the way," he tacked on, glancing at her. "It was just convenient timing."

"Nick told me he told you." It hadn't been the smoothest conversation they'd ever had. She'd been pissed at being ambushed, he'd been faux apologetic but convinced he was doing what was best for everyone – more of their usual. Yet another demonstration of why they weren't going to last.

"Like I said-" A stampede of seniors in uniform workout gear, moving far faster than they were, interrupted Barba, and after some careful maneuvering to avoid getting run over he looked at her and finished his thought. "Convenient."

They lapsed into a silence that, if it wasn't awkward, wasn't precisely comfortable either, and Rollins found herself looking for something to say. Two days on her own had left her lonely, she reasoned. That was why she was still here, moving at a speed that was sure to add on at least another forty-five minutes to her regular schedule.

"New year's resolution?" she said finally, and she could see him weighing talking to her over ignoring her.

"Yes," he said, and when he settled on talking he _settled_. "See, _running_ is what I used to do in college but then I quit once I graduated because it was hard to work eighty-hour weeks _and_ run _and_ sleep and I had to pick two or else I'd die. Or go crazy and _then_ die, so so much for that. But then every once in a while I think I'll get back into it because I _did_ manage to get through law school while doing it so the time _must_ exist somewhere, so I try but it doesn't last very long because, frankly, I can't remember why I thought I ever liked it at all even though in theory it's supposed to be good for me. Now here I am in the middle of winter trying again which is the worst fucking time to do anything because it's cold as hell but I figured if I could stick it out until spring, when the weather doesn't make me question the existence of a benevolent God, then I'll be fine but I probably won't because this is bullshit and really I'm not as young as I used to be and I'd rather be in bed."

She listened to this with a growing amusement, filing a number of points away for future consideration. "Ah."

"Lemme guess: you don't make resolutions." This was a statement, not a question, as if it tracked perfectly with everything he'd just said.

Turned out she _could_ shrug and jog at the same time. "Don't see the point. I never keep them."

"That's no reason not to try in the first place." Barba said it so seriously she thought for a moment he was being sarcastic but she didn't want to ask because somehow it still sounded perfectly reasonable coming from him. Not stupid at all, not the way it did whenever she thought something similar. He probably didn't feel the least bit foolish saying it either.

"But still, it's the only new one I made besides my traditional 'don't get cited for contempt,'" he blithely continued when she didn't say anything. "Normally not a problem for me – don't give me that face – but _last Friday_ …" and he launched into a long anecdote – heavily edited with all names removed because he was nothing if not professional but she could still guess who the key players were – detailing what sounded like an absolutely ridiculous back-and-forth during cross that culminated in the witness trying to jump the box to strangle Barba. "And can you _believe_ the judge said it was _my_ fault?" he scoffed when he was done.

At some point during his story they'd stopped making any forward progress whatsoever; Rollins rubbed her gloved hands together, trying to warm them. "You can come on kinda strong sometimes," she said, and saw how he remembered at once – as she did – how someone else had recently folded under the pressure of his questioning.

He tucked his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and looked out across the river at the city. "Not strong enough."

"You scared the man into a panic attack," she rebutted, not using his name. "He probably thought he was dying."

"I wish he had," Barba said bitterly, surprising her.

"You don't mean that."

He didn't agree or disagree, and she blew on her hands, confident in her certainty. Patton might have deserved it and worse besides, but she knew Barba wasn't that much of a bastard.

"Although you _did_ say you'd get him," she said, trying to make a joke out of it, watching a woman with a baby carriage run past them, moving faster than they ever had. Everyone, it seemed, ran faster than they did. "I didn't think you meant it literally, but it was kind of…" Rollins didn't want to say 'satisfying' but it had been. Seeing Patton squirm on the stand, seeing him visibly distressed, suffering… She'd never get what she really wanted but as a consolation prize it was pretty good. "I guess I should thank you for that."

"Don't thank me." Barba gave a small shake of his head, sounding almost angry when he repeated himself. " _Don't_ thank me."

"Alright," she said, and he deflated slightly at her acquiescence and followed after her when she resumed walking. They meandered along for some minutes, far to the right and out of the way of other fools out at the early hour.

"Christ, it's cold out," he said suddenly, huddling in his hoodie, just in time for a breeze to kick off the river and bite at them. "This was a terrible idea."

"It's good for you," Rollins said, pulling her hat further down over her ears, happy to change the topic. "Said it yourself."

He rubbed his hands together briskly before he blew on them, looking behind him, the cold doubling the distance he had to cover to get home. "I'm an idiot. This was stupid. I'm never doing this again."

"So, I'll see you again tomorrow?" It was out before she could think about it, but she didn't take it back. Days with only her dog to talk to, and she wasn't used to it, private though she might be. And Barba… Wasn't bad. Once he decided not to be. He talked a lot, and she'd rather listen to him than listen to her sick thoughts. That had gotten boring in a hurry.

He sighed dramatically. "Providing I don't freeze to death between now and then. I guess it's too early in the year to quit, right?"

She found herself returning his crooked grin as she backed away, set on finishing her run. It was too cold to waste any more time. "I don't know, you're the one who makes resolutions. You tell me."

He groaned, and when she looked back at him over her shoulder she saw his shoulders slump before he began to jog back the way they'd come.

"Wear a hat next time!" She yelled spontaneously, and though he didn't turn around he still waved a hand so she knew he'd heard her.

 

Staycations were never what they were cracked up to be, Rollins rediscovered. She'd cleaned, she'd eaten everything in her fridge and restocked it, she'd tried watching television and given up in favor of putting a dent in her tower of unfinished books. Crunched up on the couch, the dog hogging most of the space but keeping her feet warm, she figured she only had a couple of chapters left to go when suddenly, like a car crash, she was struck by the sudden desire for some of her mama's biscuits and she'd let the book drop onto her chest.

Strange because her mother had never been very good at making biscuits or cooking in general. Never paid enough attention to what she was doing, always too busy gabbing on the phone or drinking or cursing her daughters for whatever they'd gotten into lately. Rollins had eaten far better biscuits at cheap chain restaurants, the ultimate black mark on a southern woman's homemaking skills. But still, she wanted one of those golden rocks badly, and spent long minutes trying to remember what she could of the recipe. She wasn't sure her mother had ever told it to her or if there even _was_ a Rollins family recipe in the first place.

 

"So, what are you doing with all your time off?" Barba had already given her a verbal précis of his previous day, including the most notable part: almost falling down the stairs. He was convinced one of the court reporters had it out for him and had tripped him on purpose, and as laughably paranoid as it sounded it was still more exciting than what she'd gotten up to.

"Stuff," she said, flushing, glad it was even colder than yesterday, the clouds heavier, so he wouldn't notice.

"Stuff? What kind of stuff?" She'd somehow forgotten what he did for a living. "Exciting stuff? Boring stuff? Stuff like the verb, as in 'to stuff'? I can keep going, you know."

"I spent four hours looking up biscuit recipes on the internet," she admitted so he'd stop, and kept her eyes on the sidewalk ahead of them because she wasn't sure she knew what kind of reaction she expected. Or wanted. Because it hadn't exactly been entirely her idea to take some leave, regardless of how she spun it to everyone else or how necessary she knew deep down it was, and now she was stuck and the biscuit thing just drove that fact home. Fourteen days of being useless, that's what leave meant to her. It wasn't like in TV where the hero stumbled on some mystery that only they could solve while on vacation. Return triumphant to backslaps and "Good old ____, did it again! Just couldn't help yourself, eh?" None of that for her. Just endless wrong-headed biscuit recipes and waking up crying, worrying her dog.

"Four hours?" Barba snorted. "That's nothing. I once spent a week continuously Googling for this recipe I saw on a show on the Food Network when I was at my cobbler's. I only caught the last minute of it, ruined my life."

Rollins stopped jogging. "Wait, what?" Where to start? With the obvious, she supposed. "You have a cobbler?"

He stopped, hands on his hips as he breathed, great gouts of hot air billowing around him. Once again they'd slowed to a walk, and he still wasn't wearing a hat. "I don't _own_ him, he isn't _mine_ , but… Wait, do you not?"

She blinked. "No. I buy my shoes like a normal person," she said slowly. "In stores. Sometimes online when there's a good sale."

"Why? Why would you do that to yourself?" Barba looked so thoroughly confused, so dumbfounded, that she couldn't find it in herself to be offended by how much of a snob he was being.

"Because I-" She stopped, flinched when she felt something cold and wet touch her cheek, and looked up, holding out her hand. Another something wet, and just like that it was snowing the way it had been threatening to for months but hadn't managed. Nothing like what upstate had gotten, they wouldn't be buried like Buffalo, but the flakes were still sizeable, clinging, and she stripped off her glove so she could feel them land on her palm.

"Great," Barba said, glowering up at the sky, clearly not feeling the same childlike glee she did. But then he wasn't from the south where snow was such a rarity, and he hadn't fled north and spent his first Christmas alone, when the only bright spot all December had been watching that first snowfall cover up the city like magic.

"You don't like the snow?" she asked, feeling the flakes melt on her skin.

"I don't like the _cold_ ," he said, brushing the snow off his head, like he knew how the white made his hair look grayer. It wasn't a bad look for him, but he really should have worn a hat.

She bit her lip. It wasn't her place to nag him. "Move then. Somewhere the sun shines all the time. I could give you some recommendations."

"And leave all this?" He stretched out his arms, encompassing the weather, the city, the whole damn state for all she knew. "Never."

 

They parted shortly after that. Barba, huddled and grumbling, actually moved away at a rather brisk pace for a change, eager to get out of the weather; Rollins eased back into her run, conscious of how the snow started to pile up on streetlights, meters, parked cars. Her feet were wet when she arrived home, lugging a bottle of buttermilk she'd picked up on a whim, but she still felt happier than she had in a while. It snowed all morning as she decided on a recipe that looked less horrendous than all the others she'd seen, and all afternoon, when she spent more time gazing out the window than she did checking the biscuits. She burned the first tray, but the next two came out fine, and before she knew it she had far more biscuits than she knew what to do with.

The steam wafted right into her face when she pulled one apart, and if it didn't smell like her mama's it smelled delicious nonetheless, moreso when she smeared a healthy pat of butter on each piece. Too hot to really enjoy, she stood eating it stubbornly, leaning on the windowsill and watching the snow melt on the steps of the fire escape. It was easing up, wouldn't last the night. Likely be gone by the following morning.

Frannie, at her side, whined, licked her lips.

"You really shouldn't," Rollins said, licking a crumb off her finger meanly. "You're on a very strict diet."

Frannie gave her a look designed to break hearts, the one she'd given her in the shelter, so of course Rollins gave her a biscuit. Two, actually, but it wasn't like she didn't have plenty to spare, and when she ended up bagging two dozen for the freezer she felt a sense of simple accomplishment. Nothing like her mother's at all, but, judging by Frannie's enthusiasm, still good enough.

 

She was right – the snow didn't linger, much to Barba's delight. Not that he didn't have other things to complain about, like certain unnamed parties' inability to distinguish between originals and carbon copies. Listening to Barba work himself into a small fit over paper colors should have been boring – and to be honest it was a _little_ boring – but it was strangely relaxing too. Like leaving the car radio on NPR during a long drive, Rollins mostly let it wash over her, content to make a sympathetic noise here and there as required.

She still couldn't decide whether he was a morning person or not – he seemed mildly annoyed about almost everything, but he also seemed to relish it in a strange way, and she knew first-hand that his attitude wasn't limited to the hours before 8AM. Not to mention how he talked an awful lot for someone who wasn't a morning person, but that could have been a scandalous amount of caffeine in his system. It was just as likely a smokescreen for not running faster. She was fairly certain he could have if he wanted to.

"Did you ever end up making any biscuits or did you get sucked into the black hole of food blogs and bad Epicurious entries?" Barba asked once he was done, as if it was her turn in their regularly-scheduled sharing session.

"Too many, actually," she said. "Had to freeze some."

"And you didn't bring me any?" He actually sounded hurt. "I thought we had an understanding. You bring me food, I do you favors. That's how it works between cops and district attorneys. Did you forget? Have you been on vacation too long?"

"Hope not. Still have eight days to go, not counting today," she said, like she couldn't tell him down to the minute just how much time there was left between her and her first shift back. "Besides, what favor could you possibly do me now? I can wipe my own parking tickets, thanks."

"My favor to you will be pretending I didn't hear that," he replied archly.

She made a mental note to leave a bag out to defrost, ignoring the dangerous whiff of routine that followed the thought.

 

"How are you? Enjoying your time off?" It sounded like Nick was still at the station; there were busy sounds in the background, familiar and enviable.

"I'm good," she said, holding the phone between her ear and shoulder as she washed her two dishes. With so much time on her hands she'd never been more on top of her housekeeping. Her gran would've been proud. "How's things? How's everyone?"

"Oh, you know. Nuts," he said, but didn't elaborate. "Overworked and underpaid, the usual."

Rollins frowned, painfully aware of the stack of unfinished paperwork she'd left on her desk, of the caseload she'd abandoned. Someone else would be picking up the slack for her while she was off – probably Fin, or maybe Benson would give a couple to Carisi, get him some mileage. "Do you- Should I just pop in, get some files-"

"Nah," he said, cutting her off. "Don't worry about it, we're fine. Just relax, we can handle things without you."

"Okay," she said, rinsing the cup under too-hot water. "If you need anything…"

"I know, I know. Hey, what are you doing later?" But before she could answer there was a yell on his end, and suddenly the sound was muffled, though she could still hear Nick talking, laughing loudly, like he was leaning away from the phone or had it covered, and she used the opportunity to rinse a plate, waiting for the sound to rush back. When it did, there was a hint of excitement in Nick's voice, his earlier question forgotten as he said, "I gotta go, Amanda. Talk to you later?"

She flicked the water off her hands and leaned against the counter, looking down at the soap suds circling the drain. "Yeah, alright. Be safe."

"Always," he said. "Fin says hi, by the way!" Then the soft _click_ of a disconnect.

She let her phone drop from her shoulder to her hand, pocketed it, and snatched the towel off the oven door handle, a touch of lonesome settling on her. She busied herself drying her two dishes, trying not to dwell on what might have been happening back at the station, on how when Nick got demoted she hadn't hesitated to keep him in the loop. It wasn't like she needed the constant updates, she wasn't so needy as that. And really, if anything important happened she'd hear about it. Probably from Barba the next day, couched in what he pretended were uncertain terms. The thought cheered her up only slightly; she hated being the last to know anything.

The plate of biscuits, sitting on the stovetop, caught her eye when she draped the towel back over the handle. They were piled high, thick and golden at the edges; there really were far too many for one person and one perpetually hungry dog. And she could always defrost the others one by one as she wanted them. Easier just to give Barba these ones, she thought. Before they went stale.

 

No more snow but overnight the temperature plummeted, and the air was knife-sharp in her lungs as she ran, finally getting some use out of a ridiculously small backpack she'd bought on impulse years ago. Perfect size for a bag of biscuits, and she should have just pulled frozen ones to start out with and cut the middleman.

Rollins was almost halfway along what had rapidly become their usual route when she realized Barba was, in all likelihood, not outside. Or anywhere near outside. He was probably in a room with no windows, no exterior-facing walls, with the heat cranked, swaddled in an electric blanket. Because it was goddamn freezing out and he was nowhere to be seen, and her biscuits were frozen. Metaphorically _and_ literally. She was an idiot.

"I knew it! I knew you'd be out in this!" A shout from her right, and she startled, shied to the left instinctively. She'd never get used to random men shouting at her, but this one wasn't so random.

"Get in already, I'm losing all my hot air like this," Barba said, leaning out the open door, and she bolted around the front of the car to the passenger-side door and scooted in.

"What are you doing?" She tugged her backpack around so she wouldn't squash it.

"I should be asking you that but I'm afraid of the answer," he said, and pulled a large cup out of the holder between the seats and offered it to her. "Drink, defrost-" he turned the heat up so it blew out the vents, warming her as she pulled the plastic lid off the cup and inhaled the heavenly scent of fresh coffee "-And tell me where I'm dropping you off because there's no way I'm letting you go back out in that."

Rollins lowered her cup, alarmed. "No, it's alright, you don't-"

He glared at her. "It's cold as fuck out there. Drink your coffee."

She drank her coffee. It needed another sugar, but it was hot and that was really all that mattered. "Thanks," she said.

"Don't mention it," he replied, chugging his own coffee. He was dressed, she noticed belatedly. Dressed properly, anyway.

"You don't have court, do you?"

Barba smirked at her. " _Voir dire_ at 8:30 in the fucking morning because _someone_ is an early-rising asshole."

"You get up plenty early," she pointed out, shifting her hands on the cup, glad she still had her gloves on to insulate her from the heat. She'd burn her fingers without them.

"Yeah, but I don't make anyone else suffer because of it," he retorted. He nodded at her lap. "What's in the bag?"

"Oh, right." She set the cup down in the holder to drag the Ziploc bag of biscuits from the backpack. "These are for you."

His face lit up immediately and he reached for them, pausing when his fingers made contact with the plastic. "They're cold," he said, disappointed.

"Well, duh." Impulsively, she set them in his lap, biting her lip to keep from laughing when he grimaced and leaned away as far as he could. "They were outside."

He gave her a betrayed look but still opened the bag, fishing a biscuit out and taking a bite. For a moment his expression didn't change, but then it cleared and he inspected the biscuit closely. "Cold," he said thickly. Then: "Good," and took another, larger bite.

Pleased, Rollins drank her coffee, facing the windshield but covertly watching him devour the biscuit, crumbs dropping everywhere, highly visible against his black coat and the black interior of the vehicle. She thought he'd be one of those people who was fussy about food in their car, but it seemed she was wrong about him. Wouldn't be the first time.

"I wouldn't," she said, warning him off when he thoughtfully looked from his coffee to the second biscuit in his hand. She'd thought they were large but they seemed exactly the right size for him to hold.

He shrugged and ate it between gulps of coffee, achieving the same effect and seeming satisfied enough.

It was strange, sitting in his car, with its seatwarmers and its overpowered heat, the silence broken only by various mechanical hums and clicks, and the sound of Barba munching away. The engine idling, the blowing fans. When Rollins slurped her coffee by accident, she winced, thinking how loud it sounded with nothing else to cover it. The dash was lit up, but there wasn't any radio, and the silence that lay between them now was strange because at some point over the last handful of days she'd gotten used to Barba's prattle, bright and too-early first thing in the morning.

 _Yeah, but I don't make anyone else suffer_. He wasn't wrong, she conceded.

"Where to?" he asked, wiping his fingers with a handkerchief, jolting her out of her wool-gathering. Before she could object again, he patted the bag of remaining biscuists. "I take payment for favors in food, remember?" He smiled cheekily at her. "Buckle up."

 

Nick came over that night and it was… Nice. To have company, and to see him after so long. Just a week, but it felt longer. Sure, maybe Rollins had wanted to go out, feeling restless as usual, but they stayed in instead, watching TV and arguing half-heartedly over what food to order in until an ad for _Falsely Accused_ came on. Nick groaned when she said, "Oh, it looks _so_ bad. I can't wait."

"You really want to see it?"

"Hell yeah, it looks terrible! How can you _not_ want to see it? It looks worse than _The Judge_."

Nick had grinned and given her a rundown of the whole Scott Russo debacle up to that minute, not bothering to edit out any names or obscure any details, the dirty kind tabloids would love to get a hold of. By the end she was shaking her head in disgust when really she should've known better. There was just no telling with people anymore.

"Still want to see it?" he asked, trailing his fingers over her knee.

She'd frowned at him, covered his hand with her own to stop it moving up her thigh. "Not so much." Looked at their fingers, tangled together, and tried not to think about what Nick had told her. About yet another scared girl, and another powerful man with public opinion on his side.

Nick twisted a loose strand of her hair around his finger, giving her that soft look she knew he'd probably perfected years ago on his ex. A couple of months earlier it would've been a bigger distraction, but now it didn't stop her mind from going round and round, worrying pointlessly about a case she had nothing to do with.

Russo was a movie star, he had connections, money for the best lawyers, a social cache normal people couldn't imagine. If the squad's suspicions were correct, then getting him would be harder than usual. Maybe impossible.

Not that powerful men _always_ got away with it. She knew that wasn't true, even if they were celebrities or pillars of their community. _Police chiefs_ …

"How about that delivery?" Rollins said, and sat up, scooted off the couch, pushing Nick back in the process like she hadn't noticed him leaning in to kiss her. Up in a flash and pacing in the kitchen, phone in her hand. "Your choice, whatever you want to get."

She couldn't see his face from where she stood, but she could see him slump back on the couch, head lolling against the cushion as he sighed, rubbed a hand over his cheek. "No, I've got an early day tomorrow, actually, we're-"

"Yeah, alright," she said, not wanting to hear him patch together some excuse. This was how they were: false stops and starts, patching up the cracks that had only grown since that night in the bar. Her fault, she supposed, for leaning too hard on what they had, wanting to see how much give it really had. Not much after all.

"Hey."

Rollins flinched when he touched her shoulder. She hadn't noticed him get up.

"If you want me to stay…"

"You should get going," she said, turning away from the concern in his eyes, pretending to check her fridge. Concern until he decided what her problem was this time, decided the best way to deal with it. Always so eager to offer his opinion on what she should do, and then it would turn to frustration when she didn't jump to comply. That fatherly instinct. She scanned her fridge for real – hadn't there been a couple of beers on that shelf? "Early morning."

"Yeah." She listened to him walk away, open the door. "See you tomorrow maybe? Get some lunch?"

She nodded, like he could see her do it. "Sounds great."

"Alright." A lingering silence, and then he gave up. "Take it easy, Amanda." The door barely clicked when he closed it, like he was being extra careful. Didn't want to break anything.

She closed the fridge door and checked the freezer, pretty sure she had a bottle of vodka stashed away. Had to move it to make room for bags of bicuits, but there it was, next to the bag of frozen corn.

 

It wasn't actually her sobs that woke her up, but the sensation of finally making contact with something. Her knuckles smacked hard into Patton's face, the way she'd always wanted to hit him when he'd dragged his tongue against her neck in that dirty hotel room. A solid hit followed by a yelp, high-pitched, totally unlike any kind of noise Patton would ever make, and Rollins woke to darkness and the glint of big, watery eyes.

"Oh no," she said, and Frannie backed away when Rollins reached for her. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whispered, voice thick with tears, brushing her fingertips against one of Frannie's velvety ears, and when the dog licked her hand again, forgiving her instantly, she started crying harder. "I didn't mean to," she said, over and over, wrapping her arms around her neck, clinging desperately.

There was a creak, and fear slid in between her ribs, nestled close to her pounding heart as she struggled to recall… The last day? Two days? She couldn't remember, and it wouldn't have been the first time she'd brought someone home and forgotten, woken up to a stranger next to her.

She sat up on the bed, feeling woozy, and listened hard. When she'd strained her ears enough, she walked in a hunch, tugging Frannie along like a makeshift guide dog with a hand at her collar. It wasn't until they'd moved through the apartment, checked every room and found only empty bottles, that Rollins felt anything approaching relief. It wasn't remotely satisfying, tainted as it was by the knowledge that if anything _had_ happened it would've been absolutely her own goddamn fault.

Rollins sniffed hard, sliding the chain lock open when Frannie pawed at the door, looking desperate. "I know, I'm sorry," she said, grabbing her leash and a baggie, shoving her bare feet into boots and throwing her winter coat on over her t-shirt.

It was dark out, the cold prehistoric and almost unbelievable, and it chased them back up the stairs and into her apartment. She fed Frannie before she bothered to take her boots off and felt like she was passing a bribe, trying to win back affection with filtered water and kibble.

"I'm sorry," Rollins said again, pointlessly, stroking her hand down the dog's back as she ate, ignored her the way she deserved. But she wouldn't cry anymore – she'd done enough of that, and felt too worn out to bother besides. A headache had made itself at home when she'd climbed the stairs, and now she crept around her messy apartment, picking up bottles, walking carefully like she could somehow avoid the pain throbbing away in her temples.

There was a mess of receipts, some delivery slips, and Rollins assumed at some point she'd given up and started having her liquor delivered, which she'd quietly thought was the saddest thing a person drinking alone could do. Into the trash and out of sight they went, but the bottles went into a plastic bag that was destined for the garbage shoot. She felt a little better with the space cleared up, like the past week of diligent housework hadn't been for nothing. Like there was a chance her grandmother might still have been proud of her.

Rollins considered the bag and thought it wasn't very big after all, that there hadn't been as many bottles as she'd originally thought. She'd put away far more than that in the past; this wasn't that bad.

But of course the bag _was_ sizeable, and the bottles made an awful racket that Rollins was convinced everyone on her floor could hear as she carried them down the hallway. Empty bottles make a very distinctive sound; her neighbors would all know exactly what she'd been up to, and would undoubtedly be rolling over in their beds, muttering about how that crazy drunk was at it again.

Rollins had never seriously thought of herself as a drunk before, always secure in the knowledge that while she might have been a gambler, even a bit loose, she could at least handle her liquor just fine, thank you very much. But now here was yet another new label to add to the collection she'd acquired over the last couple of weeks, and at the moment she didn't think it was too far off as a descriptor. She could slot it in under _victim_.

She mulled it over in the tub, waiting for the last two Advil to take effect, eyes closed because the sight of all the off-white tile in the bathroom made her stomach turn. Alone, with no one to see her, Rollins finally agreed with Benson: technically speaking, she _was_ a victim, but it still didn't sit right. She was, _but_ \- She might have been _then_ \- She wasn't now, _because_ \- All the old reasons made her head feel so full, so heavy, that she sank under the warm water, eager to drown them.

But the bathtub was too small and her legs, knees poking high above the water, got too cold long before she ran out of air, so that was the end of that.

Rollins slicked her hair back out of her face and sighed, staring forelornly at her own funhouse reflection in the faucet. It felt like an accurate representation of her innermost self, and the thought was so ridiculous on its face, so juvenile, that she laughed.

Because the whole situation was _stale_ with inevitability. Eight – nine? – days on her own and here she was, all cried out, trying to remember the name of the suitcase girl Nick had told her about, wishing she could've forgotten her dreams instead. The good ones from her childhood had never been worth the bad ones she had now.

She didn't get out for a couple of hours, not dozing but just lying there, wrinkling and refilling the tub with hot water every time it started to get too cold, which she figured was a good sign. It spoke to her self-interest, she was sure. Something about personal comfort.

Frannie, beyond the closed door, was likely stretched across the threshold – Rollins heard when she'd flopped down onto the floor. An oversized draftstopper. She'd have to be extra careful not to trip over her.

When she finally got out of the tub after washing her hair sitting down, something that always made her feel six years old, Rollins debated having breakfast or just going straight back to bed. Her stomach had settled, the Advil had snuck up on her headache and knocked it clean out, but the weariness was bone-deep. She munched on a packet of saltines and stared at the digital clock on the stove, glad for the first time all week that she didn't have to be into work. Late for sure, not to mention she would have lost a day yesterday; there was no telling what kind of hell she would've caught for that.

Not that she'd ever missed a full day before, at least not without calling in, and again Rollins felt a surge of anger at being stuck on leave. This never would've happened if she'd still been working, if they hadn't left her at loose ends like this; she was responsible when given the chance, didn't force anyone else to pick up her slack…

Her cellphone, abandoned on the counter, gave the sad beep of impending battery death, and she picked it up, checking her messages out of habit. A couple, but it was the date that caught her eye. Sunday January 18, 7:34AM, and Rollins didn't cry but the desire to was there as she realized she'd lost two days, not one, and for some reason the idea of Barba jogging along without her, all alone out in the cold morning by himself, made her press her hand to her forehead and try to get a grip on her shaky breathing.

Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous, and she knew it, but it was just one more thing and it didn't stop her biting her quivering lip. Of all the people- He was a grown man, there shouldn't have been anything remotely pathetic or pitiable about him. They weren't even friends, they just worked together. It wasn't like it had been _routine_ , they didn't have a _routine._

He probably hadn't missed her at all.

Rollins put her half-eaten package of saltines away, left her phone for dead, and went back to bed. Enough.

 

Rollins stood with her arm pulled across her chest, stretching. "I have a question."

Barba, hunched over on the bench, was still out of breath. "Appeal," he gasped.

"What?"

He looked up at her, as confused as she was. "Wait, were you _not_ going to ask for legal advice? That's generally what people are after when they say 'I have a question.' At least in my experience."

She switched arms. "Nope."

"Oh." He dropped his head and began fanning himself with one hand. "How novel."

She shook out her arms, resolving to jump right into it. In a moment. When she had the perfect combination of words, not that she'd managed to come up with anything approaching that over the course of the morning.

Monday had dawned gloomy, a faint drizzle dropping intermittently onto the city. Not cold enough for snow, not intense enough to merit staying in – a downward-shifting mist that left the city looking washed out and dirtier than usual. At least the temperature had risen slightly, probably to Barba's pleasure. He hadn't been surprised to see her – she should have expected that – but then she'd insisted on a genuine run and he hadn't had time to say anything more than "hello."

Because if he was too busy running then he was too busy to talk, and she wouldn't be distracted. She had to get it right. She needed a second opinion.

"Don't leave me hanging," he said, staring at the pavement. The bench had been damp when he'd collapsed onto it but he didn't seem to mind. He really should have been stretching.

"Have you ever considered therapy?" That was not what she'd meant to ask. It wasn't remotely the way she'd meant to ease into this.

He started to snigger, and when he looked up at her again there were crinkles around his eyes.

She blushed. "That… Was not what I meant to say."

"Clearly." He shook his head sympathetically. "I'll give you that one for free. Try again."

Hands braced on her hips, she looked at the pavement. No help. Sky. No help. River? "I was thinking about seeing a therapist and I was wondering… What you thought. About that."

"In general or in your case specifically?"

Rollins could feel him looking at her but she kept her attention on the river, watching seagulls lazily follow after a barge. "In general, _please_."

"In general I'm pro-therapist. I like paying someone to listen to me talk, it's relaxing."

This was like the cobbler thing all over again, and the trash barge was abruptly of no interest whatsoever. "You have a therapist?"

"Uh, duh? Of course I do," he said, hands coming up like how could she ever think otherwise. "I prosecute sex crimes for a living and I live in New York, two things that basically require me to spend ninety minutes a week on someone's couch talking about how being spanked as a child influenced my career choices or whatever the fuck."

"Seriously?" She had been totally unprepared for this and was showing it. He seemed so… Stable. Not damaged. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd ever seen him seriously lose his temper, and the most that had come of that was a slammed door.

Barba rolled his eyes. "No, are you kidding? My mother would never."

She flapped a hand at him, trying to sweep all the bullshit away. "I meant the part where you have a therapist." She said it like _you_ have a _therapist_. Accusing. It was not intended, but then she'd never had control over her part in this conversation. Best to give up pretending.

"I know what you meant, I was just being a dick," he explained. "But really, yes, I do."

"What do you talk about?" She could have bitten her tongue for how rude that was. "I mean, if you don't mind me asking," she added, shifting uncomfortably. Her feet were getting cold. Running was a much warmer activity than standing around.

"My homicidal urges," he said, and she wanted to call him out for joking at her expense again but there wasn't anything sarcastic about how he said it. He looked sincere enough. Sincere and sweaty.

There wasn't really anything she could say to that.

"What brought this on?" He sat back gingerly on the bench, stretching out his legs.

"Liv suggested it. And…" The line of seagulls chasing after the barge had grown. "My weekend wasn't great." She smiled faintly, watching a tiny person emerge from the cabin and start waving a stick at the birds. "What I remember of it, anyway."

When that didn't elicit a comment, she risked a glance. Nick would've had something to say – probably too much – but Barba was very quiet, and very serious, the way he got sometimes when a sympathetic witness started to unload. She'd been on the receiving end of that face a few times and she still didn't know what to do with it. At least it wasn't dewy-eyed empathy again, once had been more than enough.

Rollins cleared her throat, swung her arms at her side like a little girl. Trying to work up some warmth, she told herself. "So, what do you think?"

"Generally speaking? You already know." He leaned forward, clasped his hands loosely. "In your case?" His eyes slid away from her to some point to her left. Like all the baggage she usually carried around had suddenly become visible. He already knew what was in some of the larger bags. "I think it would be a good idea."

She nodded. That was the same conclusion she'd spent the last day drawing herself, but hearing it echoed back at her didn't make it any better. "Okay."

"Okay." He went to push himself up and paused, then stretched out his hand. "Help me already."

She shook her head, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to his feet. "This is why you need to stretch," she said, glad for any opportunity to drop their previous topic. "Otherwise you-"

"End up stiff as a fucking board, yes, _thank you_ , doctor," he said, rubbing his back. "God, this should be fun today. You know I'm basically going from here straight to The Tombs, right? And I can barely feel my legs…"

She wrinkled her nose. "Why? It's Monday. Did you leave some- Oh, you did, didn't you?"

"Gossip blogger," he admitted, and they started walking back the way they'd come. She didn't mind, she could always finish her run later.

"Now _there's_ someone who'll need therapy," she said, eliciting a snort from Barba.

"Yeah, so that's my day booked solid. Jail, probably footing this jackass's therapy bills after he successfully sues the city for distress or some BS, trying to regain feeling in my legs – thanks for that," he said, giving her a glare. "I assume you're going to run another twenty miles and then do some cartwheels for good measure?"

"Nah," she said, shrugging it off. "I have to go home and make some calls. Busy day." She was pretty sure Lindstrom's card was still lying around somewhere.


	2. Gen, the one where Barba and Rollins are trapped on a deserted island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, though it was going to end up in a Barba/Rollins place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABRUPT ending wow.

When he was asked later, Barba would say that he didn't remember much about the crash. Just the shaking before, during. Not after; his memory didn't contain much about the immediate after. But before, the initial bumps and jerks, suspicious rattles. His seatmate, a well-tanned older woman with stylish grey streaks in her hair, had turned to him and patted his wrist like he needed reassuring, said, "Just a bit of turbulence."

And then during, when they were all being shaken like paint in a mixer, and the woman had grabbed his hand and clung to him. He'd squeezed hard enough that her palm felt still against his own, the only motionless thing in the sky at umpteen-thousand feet. He couldn't remember when he let her go, if she'd been pulled away when the plane had finally done what it had been threatening to for terrifying minutes. Shaken apart.

 

He was shaking where he sat on the beach, waterlogged and staring at the ocean. Didn't realize it even when someone squeezed his shoulder and he tried to jerk away, alarmed, but they didn't let him go. And then _they_ was suddenly _her_ , Rollins sinking down onto the sand next to him, practically in his lap. Her arms were so tight around his shoulders, hands grabbing at his jacket, that he stopped shaking. Long minutes of her wet face pressing into his neck, one hand continuously gripping and regripping the back of his shirt collar, hard tugs, but he didn't say anything, watching the waves curling over in the distance before breaking against the shore.

She let him go when they started breathing in time, after he'd stopped shaking and started swaying slightly with her heartbeats, pounding in her chest pressed hard against his, and she shoved herself away to sit a couple of very empty inches apart. Saw her in his periphery, wiping her face with both hands before she hooked her elbows over her knees, drawn up close like a girl sitting in gym class.

"I'm never flying Delta again," Barba croaked. The first coherent thought he'd had in… Hours? Hours.

Rollins touched his wrist the way his seatmate had; he didn't wait this time for someone else to take the lead, and grabbed her hand. She was very warm.

 

Rollins was so practical it made him angry, though he did a good job of hiding it. Wasn't ruthless practicality _his_ forte?

"What do you think?" She held up a wet Hawaiian shirt that looked to be five sizes too big for her, posing like they were teens going through a thrift store.

"Not really your style," he said curtly before looking down, back at the suitcase he was going through. Shit had started washing up on shore in the morning, luggage of various sizes, papers and loose items of clothing. Bits of the plane. No bodies yet, thankfully. Barba didn't know what they'd do if they found one. Well, he knew what Rollins would do. Bury it and carry on. The better question was what _he'd_ do.

Dragging the stuff to shore and picking through it for anything useful had been Rollins's idea, and at some point during the day they'd settled into their new roles. She was the brains, he was the muscle. He'd never been the muscle before in his life. Pantlegs rolled up to his knees, down to his undershirt and soaked clean through again as he lugged another bag out of the water while Rollins shaded her eyes with her hand and looked for more. She was strong but most of it, heavy with water, was just this side of _too_ heavy for her to handle without tripping in the surf. They'd found that out the hard way, and she was favoring her left shoulder now after he'd caught her, grabbed her by the elbow to steady her and wrenched her arm in the process.

He held up a shirt and took his own stab at levity. "Not quite my size, but maybe it'll fit you."

Rollins glanced over, mouth twisting before she said lightly, "I doubt it, but we could always use the stuff for bandages or something if we need them."

She was right, of course. It _was_ all too small for them, might as well put it to a good use.

"Hey."

The sun was behind her when he looked up from the Dora The Explorer t-shirt he was holding, watching with confusion when she pulled the shirt away from him and put it back in the suitcase, rezipped it and pushed it aside to crouch before him. They sat a lot closer together now than he remembered them doing before.

"It's okay," she said. Her nose was so red it made his own ache in sympathy, but there was a bit of fabric caught in the suitcase's zipper, not pink but black-and-white striped, and he didn't want to look at that either. "Okay, it's not okay, it's shitty," she amended.

"It's not like they mind," he said, and immediately felt like crying because it was true and the truth was fucked up. That kid was dead just like the rest of them, and maybe tomorrow her body would follow her small suitcase to the island's shore.

 

At some point Barba started calling them McMangoes.

"Want to go to McMangoes?" "I'm feeling like McMangoes." "I heard McMangoes is giving away free combos." The joke was going to get old fast but he kept doing it because it was awful and it made Rollins snort with laughter. Her nose was peeling, and when he'd found a sample size container of lotion in someone's purse he'd offered it to her as they broke for lunch. Only took an hour according to his miraculously still-working watch. Following some loose internal schedule, like they were at work and didn't have all the time in the world.

She was reading the back of the bottle as he shook the tree, dodging the ripe fruit that dropped while she leaned against a stubbier, barren tree. "It's hand lotion," she said with a small frown, turning the bottle over in her hands.

"Are you really going to hold out for face cream?"

Her frown deepened. "The skin on your hands isn't the same as the skin on your face."

"True. The skin on _your_ face is a lot drier than the skin on your hands." He quit shaking the tree to stand next to her. "It's got aloe, that's gotta help your Rudolph condition," he said, pointing to the label. "Just try it, your face hurts me to look at."

Rollins gasped a laugh, visibly torn between taking offense or being amused, but she still squirted a tiny amount onto her fingers and smeared it over the bridge of her nose. "Happy?"

Having raised his own hand, he hesitated. "Do you…"

She raised her eyebrows and rubbed the wrong side of her nose. "Good?"

"No. Just… Hold still." She probably hadn't used enough of it to really do any good, but the lotion was pleasantly cool against his fingertips as he carefully spread it evenly over her nose, smirking when she went cross-eyed watching his fingers rub it in. He wiped his fingers against his neck when he was done, feeling greasy but not wanting to waste his own chance at moisturizing. Of all the things to miss, he hadn't thought it would be that. "Better?"

Rollins touched the end of her nose. "Tingles." But then a smile, like he'd complimented her thoroughness on a case. "Thanks. If this works you should consider a second career in aesthetics or something, Counselor."

"And give up my promising new job at McMangoes?" he asked lamely, trudging back to shake the tree some more. "Never."

Tired already, but she still laughed.

 

Wednesday – four days after the crash – was lucky. Not "rescued by the Navy" lucky, but almost as good.

Rollins kept waking up early, shifting away from him before the sun was up, and he'd always pretended to be asleep even as he wondered at her leaving. By silent agreement they slept close together; he didn't think much about it. There were plenty of good reasons for the arrangement.

For warmth, because it got chilly at night? She'd been shivering next to him that first night, and hadn't said anything when he'd wrapped his arm around her. They'd found a sheltered bit of sand up against the low cliff, almost a cave but not quite, out of the wind, and had a nest of clothes to lie on and under now instead of just palm fronds, but it was still cool in the dark.

For comfort, because they both still had dreams about the crash? He dreamed about the shaking, had woken up a couple of times to Rollins pushing at his shoulder, whispering his name until she was sure he was awake before she'd roll back over and give him the privacy necessary to pretend those weren't tears on his cheeks. And he did the same for her when she shouted and tossed about, grabbed at nothing, huddled into him when he finally woke her up. She always went back to sleep quickly though, her breath ticklish against his throat, and that absence was what usually woke him up.

But it wasn't his place to ask, even if he was curious, until Wednesday, when she came back to get him instead of waiting for him to amble out.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," he muttered, wincing in the early morning light and annoyed at how much like the sun she was, too bright and relentless in getting him up. "Did you find coffee?"

"No, almost as good," she said, and left him to get dressed, change into someone else's shirt and swim trunks. Rotating through the clothing they'd gathered was only going so far; they both needed a shower. Or three. And not in saltwater.

He followed her lead, daydreaming about a fresh dark roast, how he'd drink it straight from the carafe with a straw if he had to, black and steaming. Too busy visualizing pouring in fine white sugar to notice how she took him into the forest – was it forest if you were on a deserted island? Or was it automatically jungle? – away from the beach, and if it was tricky going in bare feet he didn't notice. They'd both given up on shoes almost immediately, knowing they'd regret it the moment a snake or a rock got them.

Struggling to decide what sort of pastry he'd have with his coffee, Barba didn't notice the sound of trickling water until he stood at the edge of the pool.

"Ta da!" Rollins had her arms spread like she'd made this herself to surprise him with.

He stuck a toe in the water. It was deep here, deliciously cold, clean enough he could see the branches and dirt at the bottom, along with some flashes of moving light that might be fish. "How do we know it's not full of bacteria?"

She lowered her arms to plant her hands on her hips. He'd ruined her surprise. "Because it's not coming out of the Hudson."

He crouched down to stick his hand in it instead of his foot, cupped a mouthful and raised it to his face as if he was capable of inspecting it before he drank. It tasted weird. Must have been the lack of fluoride. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had unfiltered water, although he'd watched enough nature documentaries to know this _was_ filtered. In a way.

He let out an embarrassing yelp when she shoved him in.

 

"So this is what you've been doing in the mornings? Exploring?"

Rollins slicked her hair back and treaded water nearby. He didn't know what else to think of the pool as – not a lagoon, not large enough to be a lake. Rollins would call it a swimming hole if he asked her, but he didn't.

"Wrong shoes for jogging," she said like that was explanation enough for her roaming.

He could almost touch the bottom if he stretched for it; not so deep after all. "Why didn't you ask me to go with you?" Left out the part about it not being safe for her to go alone, what he'd do without her if anything happened. Rollins might have been a cop with better self-defense training than anything he was capable of, but knowing how to take a perp down didn't extend to… Fucking quicksand or scorpions or whatever else might be out there. Even so, Barba could spot a pointless argument a mile away and didn't bring any of this up. It was all just borrowing trouble.

She shrugged, the white straps of her bra visible over the surface of the pool. "I didn't think you'd want to."

"Well, I do," he said, and if it came out a little whiny, a touch left-out, _don't leave me alone_ , she didn't say a word about it.

"Alright." Her arms moved slowly back and forth just below the water, making slow waves that lapped up against him, but the corners of her mouth curled upwards as she stared at him. She stared a lot, far more than she ever used to.

He scratched his jaw self-consciously, feeling the itch of beard. "Have you gone any further in than this?"

She shook her head. "Went all the way around over the last couple of days – it's not very big – but this morning was the first time I went _in_."

"Lucky find," he murmured before rubbing his chin. "Maybe there's a barber shop. Or a bodega. Or a soap tree."

"The day's not over yet," Rollins mused, sounding like she really believed it.

 

Maybe she was right to because that afternoon was like Christmas in July, and Barba was firmly ignoring the morbidity of his glee at finding some dead person's stuff useful.

Rollins was gathering up plastic bags full of airplane peanuts before the undertow sucked them away while he dragged a large black Lamborghini suitcase from the water. The zipper stuck at the bottom where the case was dented, but he got it open with a minimum of effort. More Hawaiian shirts, _endless_ Hawaiian shirts; he pulled the wet clothes out and dumped them to the side in a pile, resolving to go through them later when he cared. Underneath it all, towards the top of the case, there were two large plastic freezer bags.

At his sudden shout, Rollins jerked up, dropping her armful of peanuts. "Y'alright?"

He waved a hand at her from the beach, high enough up that the waves wouldn't be breaking over his feet. "Shampoo!"

"What?" She snatched up her peanuts where they floated on the ocean around her like overpriced water lilies before she waded back up to him.

"Shampoo," he said again, pulling things from the bag and standing them up in the sand. Hotel-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner and _lots_ of them. A dozen boxes of soap embossed with a name that sounded vaguely familiar.

Rollins tipped over one of the bottles of body wash with her toe. "How did they get it all past security? Aren't there limits?"

"Who cares? This person is a fucking thief," Barba said gleefully, emptying out the second bag with the same level of enthusiasm he'd felt as a child at Halloween after a good haul.

Rollins dumped her peanuts on the sand before kneeling beside him to rifle through the suitcase. "Look at this," she said, pulling a massive white bathrobe out with some difficulty owing to how saturated with water it was. It had been squashed under the plastic bags, and had the same logo on the breast pocket that was on all the toiletries. "Who steals this much from a hotel?"

"A fucking _thief_ ," Barba said again, feeling almost manic as he neatened his rows of bottles and boxes.

She held up a dripping pair of royal blue slippers, the seahorse logo picked out on the tops in gold thread. "Tacky," she said. Did she mean the theft or the slippers themselves? Barba rather liked them even if they wouldn't fit his feet unless they magically grew three sizes.

"Amazing," he corrected her, and it was premature because the next thing she pulled out was a recognizable black leather case. He might have snatched it from her like a crazy person in his eagerness; could she blame him? There were a lot of rattling, tinkling sounds when he shook it that should've worried him, but he didn't care.

"Huh," she said when he unzipped it, sounding nowhere near as excited as he felt.

A razor – thankfully not electric – with a brand-new package of cartridges, the price sticker dissolving on the corner of the wavy cardboard. Nestled next to them was a soggy brush and an unopened tub of shaving cream, bottles of aftershave and oil. Wrinkled stickers on all of them, and Barba wished he knew who the patron saint of kleptomaniacs was so he could say a prayer to thank them.

"Barba?" Rollins was giving him a concerned look.

He cleared his throat and schooled his expression, plucking the aftershave from the case to better examine it and pretend he hadn't just gotten worked up over the prospect of shaving. Life had gotten ridiculous in a hurry. "It's lavender," he said, a note of disappointment in his voice, but even that didn't tamp down his happiness. Set it down next to his knee, away from the rest of the hotel goodies, and stuck his hand back in the bag to pull out the brush when he felt a sharp, sudden pain that made him hiss and swear and jerk away, the case dropping from his grip to thump onto the sand.

"Careful!" Rollins grabbed his wrist, steadying his hand as he started to shake.

"Fuck," he hissed again, teeth gritted as he stared at the glass in his hand. Blood was welling up from his fingers, cut clean across between the first and second knuckles, and there were splinters of glass embedded in his skin, needle-thin and shining with reflected sunlight. Must have come off a broken mirror. Figured.

Rollins tightened her grip on his wrist when his hand started to shake harder. "It's okay, you're okay," she said soothingly.

"There's fucking glass in my hand," he snapped, fear making him overenunciate, but she didn't take it personally.

"And I'm going to get it out, but you have to calm down," she said reasonably.

"I _am-_ "

"You're _not_."

He glared at her for interrupting him but silently conceded the point, took a deep breath when she did and closed his eyes a moment. Felt his hand shaking, independent and uncontrollable, and felt his guts twist at the memory of the last time he'd shook so hard. Opened his eyes and took another deep breath. "Just- How…?"

There was a wrinkle between her eyebrows as she considered his hand, muttered an apology when she finally had to grab his fingertips to hold him still and he let out a small noise of pain. "Manually, I guess," she said, sounding blasé. "Shouldn't be that hard. You look like you got stuck by a porcupine." Calm, like this happened all the time, no big deal. Did she have a lot of experience dealing with porcupines?

Feeling blood flowing down his fingers, pooling in his palm, he focused on her instead. "Just do it. Whatever it is. That you're going to do."

"Deep breaths, Counselor."

Barba stared at the back of her neck as she worked, bent over his hand and pulling shards free with her fingernails. Her hair was sun-streaked and shiny, still wet in a ponytail gathered over her far shoulder, and he found himself fixated on the tag of her shirt where it stuck up, blinking hard everytime she pulled another splinter out. The amount of glass in his hand was unbelievable, verging on impossible.

"Alright," she said finally, leaning back and turning his hand side to side. Still bleeding, but slower than before. A mess. He wiggled his fingers experimentally, feeling the tug of the cuts, but otherwise-

"Ah!" He would've flinched away if she hadn't still been holding onto this wrist; as it was he didn't go anywhere, couldn't get away from the bright stab of pain in the middle of his palm. "Fucking hell," he said, feeling a prickle of wetness at the corner of his eyes.

She frowned down at his hand, licked her thumb to wipe some of the blood away from his skin so she could see, ignoring his whimper. "I don't- Where?"

He gestured vaguely with his good hand, a wide circle indicating the meat of his palm by his thumb. "There. In there. Somewhere."

She pulled his thumb to the side, trying to see, tilting his hand. "Ah ha," she said when the last stubborn shard caught the light and gave its position away. Then without warning she leaned down, and he felt her teeth move against his palm for a disgusting, shocking moment.

His eyes felt wide as dinnerplates when she sat back suddenly, and he didn't notice the lack of pain until she let him go to spit into her own hand.

"Huh, big sucker," she said, and he felt a little faint when she wiped her hand carefully on the inside of the plastic bag she'd reappropriated for the rest of the broken glass she'd dug out of him. Practical as his mother had been when she'd pulled a nail out of his foot after he'd let Eddie talk him into playing in an abandoned lot.

"You-" he swallowed thickly. "You have… Blood. On your face."

She wiped her mouth, licked her lip. "Got it?"

Barba nodded before he got unsteadily to his feet, knocking over some of the bottles, the shaving kit rattling with broken mirror and other things. Thinking about how this was the first time in the whole long ordeal that he'd seen any blood. How had this happened, a plane full of people dead without there being a single drop of blood until now? Tragedies weren't supposed to be so anemic. They never were in the papers.

He desperately needed to not be around her for a little bit, but that didn't stop him from staggering back to where she remained kneeling to gently tuck her tag in, fingertips numb so he couldn't feel if the skin on the back of her neck was soft or if the sun had dried it out. Smoothed his hand over her back without thinking, leaving uneven streaks of blood on her shirt, and he bit back a gasp until she touched his shoulder and he sobbed.

 

They did not talk about his mini meltdown. It was only fair, he thought. She'd broken down in front of him a couple of times and he'd never said a word. Time for her to extend the same courtesy to him, and Rollins pretended so well he almost wondered if it had happened at all.

He scratched at his palm, feeling the strip of magenta cotton she'd wrapped around his hand. Bandages after all, torn off the bottom of a shirt after she'd left him alone to get a grip, seized the opportunity to clean herself up. Pronounced the water finer than ever and jokingly suggested he take a bath of his own. And he had, only to be forced to ask for her help with something.

"Hold still," she said idly, scraping the razor along his jaw before dunking it in the pool to rinse the blades. He resisted the urge to swallow, determined to show her that no, he was not actually a trembling mess that was slowly going to pieces while she kept her shit together. That was not who Rafael Barba was. He was cool under fire. He was the one who always had a verbal bucket of cold water to dump on the squad when they got carried away and overexcited. He was stranded on a deserted island with one other person and he wasn't going to be the first to crack. Not that it was a competition. But if it was he'd win.

Maybe it was for the best that the only mirror on the island had broken into a million pieces so he couldn't shave himself, because strangely enough this was doing wonders for his stress levels. It should've been worrisome, letting someone else do the job, but instead it was… Relaxing. Sitting in someone else's trunks and loose t-shirt, one foot in the water where they sat next to the water. The only sounds birdsong and bugs and Rollins's soft breathing, the rasp of the razor.

Rollins touched his chin, tipping his head back so she could drag the razor along his throat. Paused, blade hovering dangerously close, but he didn't move. She wouldn't hurt him. "Up or down?"

He opened his eyes to look down his nose at her before instinctively touching his throat, feeling the lather of shaving cream, thick and luxurious on his skin. "Down and in," he said, closing his eyes once more as she nodded and set the razor against his skin, high up by his ear as her free hand settled on his cheek, pulling the skin taut.

Long, smooth strokes at a steady pace, and he found himself drifting as she worked, her hand moving over his face from one side to the other. She smelled fresh, cleanly oceanic and wasn't that a joke when they'd both spent the past few days smelling like the _real_ ocean? But it was nice, a change from the salt and sweat, and he dragged in another slow breath as she leaned close to do the other side. Cracked his eyelids just enough to see how she concentrated, biting her lip. Felt beads of water trickling down the back of his neck from his wet hair. Hers was damp again, wavy. No blowdryers here; had to let the heat and the ample sunlight do the work.

"Almost-"

His fingers twitched.

"-Done," she said, dunking the razor for the last time before she set it down next to the drying brush to wet her hands and start wiping the remaining lather off his face with one of their scavenged beach towels, moving briskly.

He slapped his hand against the water to splash her back but she didn't take the bait. Snagged his chin between her fingers instead and he stilled immediately, breathing hard as she looked him over.

"Not bad," she said, dragging a finger along the underside of his jaw, eyes moving over his face.

"If you do say so yourself?" His face felt cooler, lighter. Normal again, but maybe it didn't translate properly to the crooked grin he gave her. She let him go to move away, passed him the shaving kit – cleaned out and glass-free – from her lap, her cheeks pink. Burnt again? He finished patting his face dry, covertly checking the towel for spots of blood and finding none.

"I feel like I should tip you," he said, wondering what was so interesting about the bottom of the pool that she preferred to look at it instead of him. Given the amount of time they'd spent in the water already, they were royally screwed if there were parasites. "You did a better job than some professionals."

Rollins shrugged a shoulder before getting up. She hadn't dried herself off thoroughly; there were wet patches on her shirt where it clung to her sides, her back. "Don't expect this every day," she called as she walked away.

He rubbed his smooth jaw thoughtfully, watching her disappear into the undergrowth before he uncapped the bottle of aftershave. Lavender. Oh well.

 

Omnipresent fear of dying aside, it was incredible how quickly they settled into a routine. Must have been a defense mechanism.

Wake up early to walk the circumference of the island – Rollins was right, it wasn't very big at all, maybe thirty or forty blocks all the way around – with an eye for anything interesting, a word here meaning "useful" or "deadly." Most of what they found was neither – more bits of the plane, which prompted Barba to wonder out loud why no one had found _them_ yet.

"Don't they track the dispersal patterns of the wreckage over currents and investigate for potential survivors?" Aware he was just throwing words together but knowing Rollins would understand what he meant.

She did, but she didn't know anymore than he did. "The plane went to pieces over the Pacific. Maybe they don't think there _are_ any survivors." She drew a curlicue in the sand with her toe, looking at the scrap metal floating like driftwood on the waves. "It's not like we've seen any bodies. Maybe there aren't any to find."

That was too heavy for Barba. "Maybe we haven't seen any because _we're_ the dead ones," he said, laying it on thick. "Maybe Lost was accurate. Maybe we've already shuffled off the mortal coil and McMangoes is our punishment."

He expected her to roll her eyes or make a face, something to show how stupid he was being, but instead she seemed to seriously consider the possibility. "I doubt we'd end up in the same place if that were true," she eventually said, giving him a small smile that did nothing to lighten the mood before she shook the sand off her foot and resumed walking at a brisk pace, leaving him to catch up.

 

 _Most_ of what they found was neither. After yet more mangoes – Barba tried not to think about what this diet was doing to his guts – they started bushwacking, which amounted to literally whacking bushes out of the way with the sturdiest tree branches they could find. The underbrush was thick enough to be annoying at times, the humidity climbing the further in they went, but any aggravation he felt faded when something came snorting out of the jungle. Something large and fast, charging towards them, and Barba was running before he had time to think, grabbing Rollins's arm and jerking her along after him.

Roughly five blocks later the thing gave up chasing them, and Barba risked sitting down to catch his breath while Rollins fanned herself and watched the thing lumber noisily away.

"I can't believe you got freaked out by a pig," she said, panting. Not as hard as he was, but still out of breath. It was tough going in the heat, the thick air that seemed sticky even in the cool shade of the trees.

" _I_ got- You ran just as- _What?_ " He looked back down the swathe of broken twigs and bent grasses, trampled flowers, that they – and whatever it was – had left behind. He couldn't see it, but he could imagine it out there. Being large and eating something. "It wasn't a pig, it was a-" he shut his mouth before he could say _bear_. Because yes, his first thought had been bear. Mottled brown, bigger than a dog, and his brain had just started yelling about bears. He'd never seen a bear in his life. Not even that time he went to the zoo on a field trip – it had stayed in its artificial cave to the disappointment of the entire fifth grade class. "Was it really a pig?"

"Yes!" Rollins turned on him, eyes flashing and face flushed as she loomed over him. There was a small cut on her cheek from getting hit in the face by a twig. "That was a fucking hog and I'm going to eat it," she said.

He rocked back, surprised at her aggression. Apparently he wasn't the only one tired of mangoes. "How? I don't mean how are you going to eat it, I mean… How are you going to catch it? Let alone kill it. Aren't wild pigs dangerous?" Everything he knew about pigs he'd learned from Deadwood. They could eat an entire corpse in an hour! If Rollins got eaten by a pig he would never forgive himself.

"You let me worry about that." She crossed her arms and stared back at the trail the pig had cut, radiating determination. And hunger. They'd only been there a week but she was already looking a bit lean. Pork chops would be good for her. And him, of course. He would not say no to pork chops.

He clambered up to his feet, using a nearby tree for support. Sweat was rolling down his face. God, he hated running. Still. Always. "Well, we've been lucky so far. Maybe we'll find a duffle bag full of… Pig-hunting gear. Or something. What do you even use to hunt pigs?"

"Whatever's available," Rollins said, uncrossing her arms to crack her knuckles. Was she aware of how intimidating that looked? He wasn't used to her being any kind of scary; it confused him. He hadn't been freaked out before, but now… Was he? Or was that- No, he was definitely freaked out. Sure, he'd felt the occasional homicidal urge before when he'd had to deal with some egregiously idiotic cop or offensively pedantic defense attorney, but he'd never considered doing serious harm to another living creature before. Not even his father. Okay, maybe his father. Definitely his father. And in that case he would've maimed, not murdered.

Rollins, on the other hand, looked ready to do more than maim. She looked willing and able to kill that pig with her bare hands. Capable of it too. His eyes skimmed down her form, taking in her slimly muscled arms, what he could see of her strong legs, and decided she was definitely in good enough shape for stalking wild pigs. It wasn't much of a stretch to imagine her straddling one, thighs tensing as she stabbed the hell out of it with a crude knife, sweaty hair sticking to her face, blood making her shirt cling to her heaving chest. It was too big for her, knotted at the waist, and maybe it would dip over her tanned shoulder-

Barba coughed, moved past her back into the dense vegetation, adjusting the strip of cloth still wrapped around his hand. "C'mon, that hunting gear isn't going to find itself."

 

So: walk in the morning, look for supplies, eat whatever they found that looked like it wouldn't make them horribly ill and/or kill them, dip into their airplane food if they were feeling bold – you didn't need to feel very bold for peanuts – and then check things off their castaway bucket list. Giant SOS made out of rocks on a clear stretch of beach? Check. Sharpen some branches into spears so they could take turns making fools out of themselves trying to catch one of the deceptively fast-moving fish in the shallows? Check. Debate the costs and benefits of moving further away from the beach and deeper into the jungle?

"What happens if the tide swells?" Barba pointed out. "That's not my idea of a pleasant wake-up call."

"We're too far back from the beach for that to happen," Rollins said reasonably. They'd gotten along fairly well so far, it was inevitable something would set them to bickering. Why it had to be this Barba wasn't sure.

"There isn't enough cover, what if there's a storm?" He waved a hand out at the horizon, where the sun was steadily creeping and there was a dark smudge of what he was sure were clouds. "You know there's going to be one eventually. That's how it works. Torrential downpour. We get pneumonia. We die."

Rollins set down the rock she was using to sharpen her hilariously crude fishing spear to give him an unimpressed look. "You're not going to get pneumonia and die. We're out of the wind-"

He pointed to the sky. "There's no _roof_ -"

"And there's enough of an overhang-"

"There's no fucking _roof_ ," he repeated, hunger and fatigue making him waspish. Why was she being so obstinate? "There's no good reason to stay here-"

"There's plenty-"

He started ticking points off on his fingers, taking no joy in laying out the facts. "Nothing's washed up in days, the cover sucks, we're farther away from fresh water than is justifiable, we're fucked if it rains, and we're just as capable of signaling a ship or plane from the jungle as we are from the beach. Which is to say _not at all._ "

She'd picked up her rock; was she thinking of hitting him with it? Judging by her expression – hard, the corners of her mouth turned down, face pale under her fading sunburn – it seemed a strong possibility. He was just being practical the way she had been in those early days, the way he normally was. What was the problem?

"If we move inland it'll be harder for anyone to see us," she said quietly, sounding as tired as he felt.

Ah. "There's no one _to_ see us," he said, lowering his voice to match her volume. Had he been yelling? He yelled sometimes when he got upset. "No one's shown up yet, and waiting for them could get us killed. You can't rely on other people."

She ducked her head too late to hide how her mouth twisted unhappily, on the edge of tears. Set her rock back down to press her hand to her forehead, looking at the ground. Barba normally loved being right but in that moment, seeing how her shoulders trembled, he hated it. Remembered some of the things he knew about her and wished he could take back the last thing he'd said. If anyone was painfully aware of the dangers of depending on others…

"You don't think anyone's coming, do you?" It wasn't much of a question the way Rollins asked it. That flat tone of voice, empty of any sort of optimism or hope, reminded him of that time back in January. How she'd looked when he told her she couldn't testify. Resignation, as if she'd never really expected any differently.

He wanted to lie to her this time, reassure her, seize the chance to make things better and tell her everything would be fine, but he couldn't. It had never been in him to lie. Instead, he sat down next to her, careful not to touch her but still present, thinking that this was the sort of conversation they shouldn't have been having yet. Less than two weeks in? It was too soon for this. It would always be too soon. They shouldn't have been having this conversation at all.

Sucked into brooding, knowing his silence was all the answer she needed, he missed what she said. "What?"

Rollins wiped her eyes again, gave him a quick watery look. Her nose didn't look so bad anymore; using that lotion every day must have helped more than it hurt. "I said I guess the reception's pretty terrible here, huh."

He grimaced. "If I'd known Sprint was the provider for this island I would've washed up on a different one."

If her laughter was forced that was okay; she swayed into him, nudged his arm with her shoulder. _Fine, you win_. Not happy about it, but then neither was he.

 

"Go on. Say it."

Barba didn't move. Rain was sheeting down six feet before them, streaming away thanks to the slight incline.

Rollins poked him in the side with one finger, right in the soft bit of his stomach as lightning flashed above the canopy, illuminating her face. The half-gasped giggle he'd let out had produced the biggest smile he'd seen her sport in… Days. Maybe a week. "Ticklish, Counselor?"

"I plead the fifth," he said, dropping his arms from where he'd had them propped up, wrists resting on his knees, to protect his vulnerable sides. The dead tree that made up half their new shelter creaked with the thunder, but not alarmingly.

A shuffling sound as she dragged her ass over to sit critical inches closer, rumpling the beach towel they were sitting on. "Say it. I know you're dying to."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He was boxed in – tree to his left, Rollins to his right, the storm before them. The only option he had was to go deeper into their shelter, towards the bare curving rock face of the cliff that the tree had grown up beside and seemingly collapsed against. But then he'd be trapped for sure, surrounded by their collection of suitcases standing like small boulders in the darkness.

"About the rain," she said from a lot nearer than before. "You can say 'I told you so,' I won't hold it against you."

"When have you ever known me to gloat?" His breathing sped up as something brushed against his shirtfront; he shifted his arms forward.

She hummed. Just enough white light made it through the swaying leaves and limbs of the trees ahead that he could see it in her face when the lightning flashed again. "Never," she admitted. "But you're awfully good at being smug," and her fingers wiggled against his side once more, making him shudder and let out a hoot, spin around to grab at her hand. Both hands for good measure, careful not to hurt her even as she laughed at him, twisted in his grip and wiggled her fingers threateningly as the thunder crashed.

Nothing for it – now sitting cross-legged, he pulled her in closer, pushed her hands together so he could grip her wrists with one hand, pointed away from anywhere she might do further damage to his image of a cool professional. Wrapped an arm around her to hold her in position, secure against his chest, shivering when she laughed low and triumphant.

Her hair was in his face; he blew it out of the way before he murmured, "Pretty sure that counts as police brutality, Detective."

Rollins tugged her hands, testing his grip. "If you don't let me go I'll show you police brutality."

"Only if you promise no more tickling." He adjusted his grip on her wrists, his free hand sliding over her t-shirt covered stomach. Felt rather than heard it growl, and his own clenched in commiseration. They had to get their food situation sorted out soon or they were going to start eating moss. Hadn't that been the trend in Williamsburg restaurants a year or two ago? Might be time to see what all the rage was about.

"Lawyers," she whispered, rich with disgust. "Always making deals. Fine."

A blink-and-you'd-miss-it flash of lightning, a renewed gust of wind and rain, like a giant bucket being emptied over them; he didn't know if it was instinctual response to poor weather, the crash of thunder or his breath against her ear that made Rollins shiver in his arms. Then the wind shifted, blew cold into their shelter, and he shivered in turn before letting her go.

She moved away the second she was free; he missed her warmth immediately but said nothing. He had her word, knew it was good, but he couldn't help feeling a bit nervous, hearing her move around somewhere behind him.

The loud burr of a suitcase zipper, open and shut, and something soft draped over his shoulders before she sat down next to him, almost as close as before. He held the bathrobe open like a blanket – at XXL it might as well have been one – for Rollins to scoot under. It had been a long two weeks of sleeping next to each other, and now there was nothing strange about their proximity. No one else around, nothing familiar but each other to cling to; it would've been stranger if they'd kept to the old status quo. Maintained their old distance.

"Think it's raining in New York?" Rollins asked, interrupting his wool-gathering.

He shrugged, arm falling naturally around her shoulders under the robe. "It's spring, so probably."

She pulled the robe snugger around her, taut over his arm; he did the same on his side, heavy terrycloth trapping their body heat. He'd love to see what a person who wore an XXL bathrobe and size nine slippers looked like. Maybe they just liked to be comfy. He was, anyway. Hungry, but comfy despite sitting on the ground. Well, on a towel on springy moss on the ground.

"I hope it isn't," she said softly. "Frannie's afraid of the thunder."

On cue, there was another rumble, more distant than before. The storm was moving away, though the rain hadn't let up.

He cupped her arm. "I'm sure she's fine. You said Amaro's looking after her-"

"He wouldn't know she gets upset unless he was there," she interrupted, winding herself up. "She likes to snuggle-"

The dog wasn't the only one. "She's fine," he said again, firmer this time, and Rollins tipped her head to the side to rest on his shoulder as she let out a shaky sigh.

"I miss my dog."

The lightning was distant, little more than a shift in degrees of darkness, and the thunder was barely audible.

"Don't you miss anything?" Her arm was looped around his waist, hand pressed to his side and deliberately unmoving. Keeping her promise as best she could.

"Coffee," Barba said automatically. "Laundry detergent. Clean socks."

The sigh she let out was steadier, less upset and more exasperated. "You know what I mean."

He didn't apologize, but he didn't want to think about this either. There wasn't any point. Dwell on missing his mom? Lucia'd be upset, but she wouldn't have gone completely to pieces without him. She hadn't after his _abuela_ died; in his case there wasn't a body, and he knew she'd cling to that. No body meant there was hope. She'd keep working, maybe pray more, but carry on without him. And contrary to what some of the SVU cops seemed to think, he wasn't the only person in the DA's office – they didn't really need him either. No pets, no siblings, no spouse or children-

As if she had read his mind, Rollins spoke up. "You know, Liv was supposed to go instead of me?"

"I think… I knew that. You traded at the last minute, didn't you?" Liv. Now there was someone he missed, but at the same time he was glad she wasn't here.

"Yeah. Something came up with Noah, she wasn't- I jumped at the chance. Thought it would be great. Three days in Hawaii for a conference? No sweat." She shifted so her legs rested against his thigh, her hand sliding up his side to press over his ribs, making him suck in a breath. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he whispered. "You know, it's okay if-"

Felt the rustle of her hair against his shirt when she shook her head. "I'm not… Angry. Or resentful, if that's what you think." Another one of those sighs, so weary, like something Barba himself felt like letting out when she said, "Better me than her, right? I'm just sorry you-"

He squeezed her arm hard to stop her from saying anything else. The quiet wasn't silence: the rain continued to fall in a steady patter, the croaking of frogs and shushing of the trees swaying drifted in to where they sat. Their breathing, in time as usual, and he was nodding off sitting up when Rollins said, "Alcohol."

"Underwear fresh from the dryer," he murmured, picking up the game immediately. "Dry-cleaning."

"You're very clothes-oriented, did you notice?"

He didn't bother to open his eyes, just let his cheek rest against the top of her head. "Egyptian cotton sheets. Mints on pillows."

Asleep before she said, "Turndown service."

 

A hard jerk, like taking a speed bump too fast. Barba saw the man across the aisle cursing; his drink had slopped over the side of his plastic cup and straight into his lap, and he pounded the call button over and over.

"I would think once is enough," his seatmate whispered to him, raising her eyebrows over her cat-eye frames before turning back to her book. "It's not like the poor girl's deaf, although I bet she wished she were," she said from the corner of her mouth.

_Dingdingdingdingding_

Barba snorted, sat back in his own seat to look out the window at the clouds, spread below them like a duvet being aired. They looked innocent, white and downy, not a hint of threatening weather, which made the jostling, the renewed shaking of the plane so odd.

Low exclamations of surprise as knees banged against trays, drinks spilled, the flight attendants in the aisles grasping at seat backs for balance. And then nothing, steady again, and a ripple of relieved laughter traveled through the cabin.

"Just a bit of turbulence." The woman patted his wrist; he'd taken over the shared armrest without realizing. She gave off a cool grandma vibe with the streaks of grey in her hair, her chunky turquoise necklace, her lined face and its heavy tan, too old to care about things like sun damage or skin cancer. But she paled under that tan when the plane jerked and gravity shifted to the far right before it corrected. The seatbelt signs lit up throughout the cabin with a _bong._

Another jolt, harder than before, reminiscent of the old wooden rollercoaster at Coney Island. The one Barba always hated riding because it was such a rough ride, but it didn't compare to this. To the nauseating shaking, the brutal jolting that wasn't stopping or slowing down. Shouts and screams, growing more fearful at the same rate that the lurching gained intensity, and then all of a sudden there was silence.

People were screaming; he could see their open mouths, their wild eyes, but he couldn't hear it. Small objects – napkins, cups, trays and phones, books and magazines – were flying around the cabin, clipping people, hitting the ceiling, but none of it struck him. All he heard was a steady drone, high-pitched, a painful whine in his ears that didn't stop. He couldn't feel his seatbelt, stretched tight across his lap. Couldn't feel the air rushing around the cabin from the hole that opened up on the far side of the plane, the gash that fed a half-dozen people to the blue sky visible beyond.

All Barba could feel was the woman's hand, clutching his own, her fingernails biting into the side of his hand, and he twisted his hand to hold her hand properly. Palms pressed together, and she'd lost her glasses when he looked to her, saw her open-mouthed terror, her red eyes, the blood smeared over her lip but he couldn't hear her.

Even after he sat up, breathing hard, he couldn't hear anything. Just that hum, the rush of a sudden descent, cabin depressurization, and he stared unseeingly at the spread of pristine nature before him. The mist rising slowly from the forest floor, the green leaves electric in their vibrancy, the coffee grind-brown of the dirt, standing water in pools, all of it at a low-grade tilt away from where he sat.

He sat gasping, a series of aftershock-like shudders moving through him as Rollins stepped carefully through the underbrush towards him, pushing aside a dangling vine. A twig snapped under her foot, a few feet away, and he flinched, looked up at her, frowning at the bright smears of red all over her shirt, her arms.

On his hands too once he scrambled up, staggered forward to touch her. "Are you- What happened? Are you okay?" Not sure where to start – it was everywhere, on her neck, slick under his fingers when he checked for a cut. Made his way down to the heaviest concentration on her chest, her belly, ignoring her waving hands, her protests, to pull up her shirt, looking for the wound he knew was there.

"Barba! Barba, I'm fine, it's not- Stop-"

Smooth, unmarked skin that was soft under his tacky fingers, more pink than red, and he felt her hand settle heavy on his shoulder as he pushed her shirt up more, high enough that he could glimpse the edge of her bra, but there was nothing-

"Rafael! _Stop_."

-and there had to be something. He just couldn't find it, couldn't find the gash that _had_ to be there to produce that kind of spray, the arterial gushing all over her clothes, and he was still thinking of his seatmate with her bloody mouth when Rollins shoved him back and slapped him hard across the face.

His arms hung loose at his sides as he blinked at her. She was panting, shoulders drawn up defensively, standing at an angle to him and out of arm's reach. Making herself a smaller target, putting distance between them, the way she'd been trained. His cheek was throbbing.

"Are you okay?"

Barba took in the bloody, sweaty sight of her and glared at her. "Are _you_ okay?"

She looked as confused as he felt. "I told you, it's not mine."

His glare weakened as he took in the sight of the smears on her neck. They looked like fingerprints, too big to be hers. "Whose…"

Rollins tossed her messy hair back. There was blood in her bangs. "I told you I'd get that pig."

He sat down where he stood and rubbed a hand over his forehead, forgetting the blood on his hands. A layer of sweat covered his body, feeling unfair and unearned. He'd just gotten up, hadn't had time to _do_ anything to merit sweating. Fuck the tropics.

When she drew cautiously nearer, laid her small red hand high on his shoulder, by his neck, he didn't move. "Are you alright?"

"You went without me," he snapped. "I thought we agreed we'd go together when-"

"I'm sorry," she interrupted. "You were sleeping, and I just- I thought it would be quicker." _Without you_.

There was blood on her legs. If it wasn't hers, what the hell had she done to- He swallowed. Her thumb was slowly rubbing his bare neck, half-an-inch above his shirt collar, and that more than anything else reassured him. When had he turned into such a basketcase? "Sorry," he mumbled, cheeks hot. "For… Being a crazy person."

Her hand dropped away from him. "It's alright. I knew you had to be deep down," she said. Her smile was small, playful, and it just made him feel worse. She dragged the hem of her shirt up as she walked past him; he didn't look away when she pulled her shirt off to reveal her freckled back. Half-expecting to see some long dragging wound instead of the periwinkle blue band of her bra stretched over her shoulder blades, he didn't look away until she dropped her faded and stained denim shorts.

He'd been ready to tear her clothes off, he thought empassively as he plucked bits of moss from the dirt to roll between his fingers. That was not a reasonable reaction to anything. To be fair- No. There wasn't any way to be fair.

"If you're done beating yourself up, I could use your help with something."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally named "Scenes from an Italian restaurant." Yes, like the Billy Joel song. I love that song.


	3. Gen, the one where they flirt in an elevator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen-ish, references to past Rollins/Amaro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this immediately following s16's finale. It was going to be a whole thing but... You know me. This is basically just tipsy flirting, but holy shit was the dialogue ever jossed HARD by the show. THANKS LEIGHT.

Nick left first, of course.

"Physio," he explained, and there was a round of sympathetic noises, earnest "bye"s and "take care"s. Rollins was on her feet even before he'd finished levering himself up from the chair, and he waved her off as he righted his crutches.

She trailed after him anyway, thinking she'd offer him a lift, but then Liv was at the door and Nick said over his shoulder, "No, Amanda. Stay. It's alright."

"If you think I'd let you-"

"Amanda." Nick had to hop to turn bodily around to face her, and the way he stood with his crutches tucked up in his armpits made him look like he was shrugging in resignation the whole time. A _can you believe this_ look. "You've been great, and I really appreciate everything…"

Rollins swallowed her disappointment, looked to where Liv stood next to the door, looking beautiful and pointedly not listening as Nick said whatever it was he was saying. Probably something about how he needed to do this himself, he was a big boy, thanks for the memories, yadda yadda yadda.

She didn't startle when he touched her forearm, covered her hand with his. It was warm, a little damp from gripping the handle of the crutch all the time. "Stay? Have fun for me?" That boyish smile, the one that almost annoyed her with how handsome it made him look.

"I'll make sure he doesn't have to hail his own cab," Liv piped up from the door. "Don't worry."

There wasn't any point in fighting it. Nick was going to do what he was going to do – go it alone, quit the force, leave the state – and so would she. "Fine," Rollins said, putting a happy face on it. He squeezed her hand, and impulsively she gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. "Don't overdo it, 'kay? Take care of yourself."

"You know I always look out for number one," he said, and even if it wasn't a final goodbye – that wouldn't come for at least another month – it sure felt like one as he turned to hobble his way out of Liv's apartment. She gave Rollins a soft smile as she followed after, shut the door behind them, and that was that.

Rollins sighed deeply, looking up at the high ceiling as she felt her eyes prickle with tears. She was fine. Nick would be fine. Everything was fine. And really, it all _was_ fine, at least with them. After their collectively awful luck, the stunts she'd pulled, this was the best she could've ever hoped for: they were friends even if they weren't going to be coworkers. They had an understanding of a sort. Better than anything else she'd managed with past flames. It was fine. Even if it felt like he'd dumped her in her lieutenant's foyer.

She fanned her eyes with one hand and went back, sidestepping XXX with her arms full of worn out toddler.

Carisi had taken her seat, and gazed after Noah with a dopey look on his face. "I love kids," he said to the surprise of no one. "I can't wait to have some."

There was space on the couch next to Barba, who had a question in his eyes.

"He'll be alright," she whispered, smoothing the back of her dress before sinking down beside him, determined to set aside her ridiculous desire to feel glum. Focusing on Carisi's BS seemed like the best way to distract herself. "'Some'? How many you planning on having?"

Carisi shrugged cheerfully. "I dunno, maybe three or four."

"Why not a baseball team's worth?" Barba said dryly, and when Rollins glanced at him he rolled his eyes.

If Carisi noticed the irony he ignored it. "Now you're talking. The Carisi Cougars. Or the _Crushers-_ "

"You say that now, wait 'til you have one," Fin chimed in, and drained his flute of champagne. "Trust me: one's enough."

"Maybe for _you_." Carisi plucked a couple of wooden blocks from the floor to tap together. "I come from a big family, and I want a big family. Work all day, come home to the kids tearin' around the house-"

"Ugh." Barba gave her a small shake of the head and another eyeroll.

"Hey, you don't know what you're missing out on," Carisi said before he started to slowly juggle the blocks, nearly dropping one into his half-full glass on the low table before him. "Three's company, but there's nothin' better than a crowd."

"What if your hypothetical old lady doesn't _want_ a bunch of rugrats?" Fin asked, rising to track down the rest of the champagne. "What if she doesn't want _any_? Kids are a lotta work. And expensive as hell."

The blocks continued to go round and round as Carisi explained how he'd _never_ marry a woman who didn't want to birth a horde. Rollins tuned it out to focus on the frankly impressive juggling. Barba was a great deal less dazzled, but then she imagined him making some sort of performing monkey joke and snorted.

"What, you don't think so?" The blocks stopped as Carisi pointed at her. "C'mon, Rollins, be honest. Don't all women deep down want kids?"

Caught flat-footed, she went with her first instinct: she scoffed. Loudly. "You're kidding, right? _No._ "

Carisi made a face. "Nah, I don't buy it. Women, they all get baby crazy-"

" _Baby crazy?_ " Rollins squinted at him, feeling the couch shift under her as Barba moved a bit to the right, the better to openly watch them while sipping his drink.

"-What with their biological clocks tickin' away," Carisi continued as Fin came back with a full glass to stand next to the couch. "Even the ones who say they don't want any. They get old enough, those ticks get awful loud. Look at the sarge- lieutenant now, I guess. She's-"

"She's _what_ ," Barba said, and whatever was in his expression made Carisi reconsider what he was about to say.

He dropped the blocks to the floor to wave a hand at Rollins again. "I'm just sayin' that eventually _all_ women want kids. It's like a physiological imperative, they-"

" _Wrong_ ," she drawled, long and loud over Carisi, shutting him up as Fin snickered. "Don't go projecting _your_ 'baby craziness' onto everyone else. I don't know how you haven't learned this by now, Carisi, but not everyone wants kids. They might even have a good reason! Different priorities." She gave him an exaggerated shrug. "Hard to imagine not everyone's like you, I know."

Barba leaned forward to snatch up Carisi's glass, ignoring his squawk to pass it to Rollins. "To different priorities," he said, and they toasted, Rollins smirking at Carisi as she polished off what was left of his drink.

 

Not only was her glass empty, but at some point the party had broken up completely. Rollins couldn't remember when exactly either of those things had occurred, but they were equally depressing.

"Amanda, it was really great of you to come," Liv said, hand on her shoulder as she leaned over the couch.

She felt like sighing but didn't. Someone else giving her the boot in the nicest possible way.

"She's telling us politely to get the hell out," Barba called from the kitchen, and he grinned at Liv before shoving an entire cupcake in his mouth. There was a tidy pile of wrappers before him on the counter.

"That's…" Liv scrunched up her face before patting Rollins on the shoulder again. "It's getting late-"

"It's seven o'clock," Barba said thickly, and the dirty look Liv shot him just made him duck his head and work on peeling the wrapper off another cupcake.

"No, no, I get it." Rollins didn't wobble in the slightest when she got to her feet. No spinning, no dizziness. She should've been proud of herself for not overdoing it, but instead she just felt… Well, disappointed. Today was supposed to be good, happy, and here she was coming up on the brink of wanting to mope once again.

Another drink would fix that, Rollins was sure.

"Thanks for having me," she said to Liv, hooking her bag over her shoulder. It was just the three of them, and Rollins wasn't quite sure how it had ended up that way. Something about… Family obligations? For Carisi _and_ Fin?

Liv clasped her arm again. "You're _always_ welcome, Amanda." Put more feeling into it than normal, but maybe everyone was feeling more emotional than usual. Turned to Barba, standing with his chin up and his left hand behind his back. "Barba."

"Benson." There was a shine to his eyes that likely wasn't just the result of the lights hitting them, so when he kissed Liv on the cheek Rollins was less surprised than she ordinarily would've been. "Not the _worst_ party I've been to," he said with a teasing smirk.

"Ha ha." Liv pushed him forward into the hall. "Insult my hospitality? Now you _really_ have to get out of here."

When Rollins saw the two cupcakes he held behind his back, a careful distance from his jacket, she started walking down the hallway, using the pretense to keep her smile from being seen.

"Have a good night!" Liv called as Barba caught up to her, still walking backwards. "Stay out of trouble!"

He waved when Rollins did, a jaunty wiggle of his fingers, and once the door closed he immediately whipped around, holding one of the cupcakes out to her.

"How many of these did you eat?" The wrapper stuck on one side where his thumb had pushed in, and required delicate work to keep the moist cake from sticking to it.

"Including this one?" Enough to be an expert at unwrapping them, Rollins noticed – he was already crushing the loose wrapper up in one hand. "I choose to exercise my fifth amendment right against self-incrimination," he rattled off smoothly.

At least eleven then; she couldn't recall seeing anyone else eat one.

Success; she took a delicate bite, tasting frosting and food dye and, buried under all the sweetness, chocolate cupcake. Barba had already eaten his by the time she took a proper bite, and pushed the button for the elevator for her since her hands were otherwise occupied, the one full of cupcake and the other a crumb-catcher below.

"Seven o'clock," he grumbled, leaning against the wall and looking up at the indicator lights.

"Seven o'clock on a _Saturday_ ," Rollins corrected, licking a bit of frosting off her finger. It was too early; she did not want to go home to her dog and her usual loneliness. She vaguely remembered Fin saying something about having brunch with his son and son-in-law. What did she have to look forward to Sunday morning? Nothing.

He grimaced, passing her a white handkerchief from his pocket. "This makes me feel old."

Rollins silently agreed. "Because your grey hair doesn't?" She wiped her fingers and passed it back with a smile that he returned with a bitchy edge to it. "You know what would fix that feeling?"

"If the next words out of your mouth aren't 'more drinking,' I don't want to hear them," Barba said as the elevator chimed and they stepped in.

Now she _was_ surprised, but not as much as she was delighted. Drinking alone hadn't appealed regardless of where she did it, and having someone along she already knew practically guaranteed she'd behave herself. Not that she needed the babysitting, but… It was just nice to have company she didn't have to work for. Barba wasn't her usual company by a long shot, but that wasn't a bad thing. They got along well enough.

"But no dives," he said after hitting the button for the ground floor, interrupting her thinking by leaning back against the wall and nudging her arm in the process as he settled his elbows on the handrail. "I draw the line at dives. And no hipster gastropubs."

"Aww, but I love drinking with twenty-three-year-olds in Williamsburg!" Worth it just to see him cringe and shake his head in disgust even if she wouldn't be caught dead in a place serving a microbrew alongside deconstructed fish and chips.

"Nowhere we could risk running into Carisi," he explained. "We look good, we're going somewhere classy."

"'We'?" Resting her own elbow on the handrail, she gave him a pointed once-over, lingering on the plaid detail on the placket of his polo shirt. Wondering not for the first time how he could afford it all, she flicked the tip of his pocket square, catching his attention.

She wasn't prepared for how he dragged his eyes up her body, from her shoes to her face, and the breath caught in her chest at the intensity of his regard.

They were standing very close together, she realized. His eyes didn't look green at all in the ambient lighting of the elevator, just dark.

The smile he gave her finally was slow, and she wondered briefly if this was such a good idea after all. Dismissed it as crazy right before he said, "Yes, _we_." The elevator chimed, the doors slid open, then closed, but neither of them noticed.

"Are you saying you like my dress?" Rollins looked down, smoothed a hand over her hip. She'd felt a little foolish at first, wondering if it was too much for a small get-together, moreso when she'd seen Nick, so casual. But she rarely got to dress up, had a bunch of things just gathering dust in her closet, so what the hell, right? "I thought I was a bit overdressed," she admitted.

"You're saying that to _me_?" Barba asked, quirking an eyebrow at her. As if she'd forgotten he was the only guy who hadn't shown up in sneakers.

"You _are_ wearing a polo shirt," she pointed out, and couldn't resist touching the swatch of plaid any longer. "Although it is a very nice polo shirt." Just two fingertips to the fabric between the buttons, and he didn't bother to track them, watched her face instead.

"This is me letting my hair down," he said seriously, and then it was her turn not to watch his hand move towards her. Felt it when he touched a curled lock of her hair where it rested against her shoulder and his smile was much smaller than before, much more crooked. "Maybe not as well as you."

She blinked as the elevator doors slid open a second time, revealing an elderly pair of women with walkers and bags of groceries. Rollins stepped out and to the side, Barba mirroring her but lingering with one hand out to stop the doors from closing on the old ladies. In the time it took them to putter safely inside, Rollins wondered what the hell had just happened. Again: if this was such a good idea.

But then Barba turned back to her, arm extended as he said, "Shall we?"

Better than "it's been a slice but bye." Or "see you next week." Or "actually, on second thought, I have plans and they don't include you and PS I'm moving out of state so bye _forever_." It was exhausting, even for someone who didn't lean on others too much. Just once she wanted to spend time with a person who wasn't going to cut things short with "maybe next time" just when she started to settle in.

Besides, it was _Barba_. Nothing was going to happen. The whole idea was beyond laughable.

She resettled her purse over her shoulder and took his arm. "We shall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another file named from a Billy Joel song - "if that's movin' up" from "Movin' Out." Another song I love.


	4. Gen, the one where Barba's secretly divorced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen-ish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People like to speculate about where Barba finds the money to afford his wardrobe. Sugar daddy/mommy is most popular, I think, but I wondered, "What if he was divorced and it was alimony?" So there you go.

It started at Liv's party, when Fin nodded to Barba and said, "Nice shirt. Burberry?"

Barba nodded. "Of course."

" _Burberry_ ," Carisi scoffed, gesturing at Barba with his half-full glass. "Now there's something I've been wondering – you dress pretty sharp for a district attorney-"

"I'll take that as a compliment," Barba said, smiling even though his eyes narrowed a bit.

"-But how do you afford it?" Carisi asked, his boldness not surprising Rollins in the least. A tacky question but one she couldn't deny pondering herself from time to time, even if she'd never dream ask. It was _rude_. "ADAs don't make shit by any means, but they definitely don't make enough to justify _your_ wardrobe."

"Not to mention the vacations," Fin pointed out to Carisi's approval.

"Yeah! St Barth's, the German skiing place-"

"Gstaad, and it's Swiss," Barba said before taking a sip of his drink.

"Gesundheit," Carisi replied. "What, you got a sugar mama we don't know about?"

Rollins watched Barba carefully, growing only more curious as his eyes hardened.

"You really want to know?" He stared at Carisi, practically daring him, but a glance at her partner's face told Rollins he wasn't picking up on it.

"Sure."

"Alimony," Barba said, smile wide. Maybe it was that, or maybe it was how he said it – flat, totally unexpected – that sold it as a joke, but it had Fin and Carisi laughing. Neither of them noticed how Barba's grin never reached his eyes, turned ugly before it disappeared when he downed the considerable remainer of his drink, but Rollins did.

 

She should've remembered that moment weeks later when she dropped by Barba's office for trial prep. The door was open but she knocked anyway to be polite. He didn't look up from where he sat at his desk, staring down at a stack of folders as he shook his head continuously, phone to his ear. His desk phone, not his cell, and he waved her in blindly.

Rollins took a seat across from him, feeling nosy, wondering at his expression. Tight-lipped, pale, and that jerky headshake of denial – he was pissed.

"Sof- Sofia- Look, I don't have time for-" a blast of noise, and Barba held the receiver away from his ear, grimacing at the shouting. A woman's voice, that much was clear, but Rollins couldn’t make out any of the words. Just the piercing tone, and Barba leaned forward to rest his head in his hand, waiting her out and giving Rollins a quick look. "Sorry," he mouthed.

"It's fine." She pulled out her own phone, checked her email in an attempt to look a little less like she was eavesdropping, ruining the effect by watching Barba massage his temple and bring the phone back to his ear.

"Sofia, I'll talk to you later," he said, not really trying to make himself heard over her yelling, and slammed the receiver down in the cradle. Winced, picked it up and set it down again much softer. "Damn it."

"Everything alright?" Rollins asked, putting her phone away immediately.

"Fine," he said shortly, gathering up the folders, a notepad, and a banker's box from the floor, lugging it all over to the conference table. "Let's get on with it."

They'd barely settled when his desk phone rang, and Barba excused himself again as Rollins opened a folder and started skimming, only looking up when it kept ringing.

Barba was standing at his desk, one hand on the receiver, visibly torn on whether to answer or not. When he noticed her staring he picked up, turned his back, and Rollins did her best not to listen in on his whispered conversation. It was none of her business.

"Sorry," he said again when he'd hung up a second time and rejoined her at the table.

"A new record," Rollins said, trying to lighten the mood and confusing him instead. "You've already apologized three or four times and I've been here less than twenty minutes. That's more than anyone normally gets in years."

Barba's confusion faded, replaced by a shy embarrassment as he made himself busy pulling stacks of paperwork from the box to organize in tidy piles on the table. "Better not tell Carisi, his head might explode," he said, promptly interrupted by the phone ringing again.

"You're popular today," Rollins said thoughtfully as Barba dragged himself back to his desk. But instead of answering it he tapped a couple of buttons, the ringer falling silent immediately, and he didn't have a reply for her when he sat down across from her, looking more tired than angry.

The red light started flashing on his phone, over and over noiselessly, and Barba didn't look up from the deposition he was focusing on. "Just ignore it," he said stonily.

Over and over. If he were any of the other guys she worked with she'd ask what was up and expect an annoyed explanation, _just my ex/sister/mother on a rampage_ , but with Barba she didn't feel quite so comfortable. Tried anyway just because that damn light was flashing again like a strobe and Barba looked so… Upset. "Did you wanna…?"

"No." Barba pulled his pen from his breast pocket and clicked it, expression as empty as the notepad before him. "Let's get to work."

 

She didn't have an excuse for not remembering any of that days later when the verdict came back and she insisted on taking Barba out for a victory drink. Practically bullied him into it, really, insisting when he said he had work.

"C'mon, Counselor, one drink. To celebrate."

"It was all down to the jury," he said, clutching his bag.

"Don't be so modest, it doesn't suit you," Rollins replied, subtly herding him away from the elevators and towards the exit. "Believe me, you earned it."

Because he really had. What should've been a straightforward assault case had ended up tricky, complicated by too many witnesses saying too many things, impossible for the average citizen to untangle the conflicting testimonies. But Barba was no average citizen. He'd kept track of the details and handled the witnesses like the pro he was, highlighting where they agreed, downplaying where they hadn't, and piecing together a narrative so convincing the jury could only vote one way. It had been impressive, to say the least.

Deep down, Barba must have agreed with her. "Just one."

One drink had turned into a few, and then dinner – her suggestion, and Barba was going to object again but his stomach rumbled so loudly it was audible over the bar's music and that was the end of that. That was all fine with Rollins for a whole host of reasons. Like it being the end of a very long week; court had been the usual emotional rollercoaster; she was _starving_ ; Barba… Wasn't such bad company. She'd already known the unfeeling snippy jackass front was just that, a front, but they'd never spent much time together outside of work – not the way she did with Fin or even Carisi, definitely not the way she had with Nick – and she was pleased to see they got along. She could always use more friends, and she suspected Barba was the same – he never talked about anyone outside of work, never hinted at family obligations or college reunions. Dates. Nothing. He could've been vacationing alone – that wouldn't have surprised her in the least.

What would he have discussed with all those mysterious friends or lovers he may or may not have? In their case it was largely shop talk, but that was what they had in common; three or four drinks in Barba was waving his hands, laughing and saying, "No, no, I can top that" in response to her story of a disastrous traffic stop involving a drunk dog and a handsy good ol' boy back in Georgia. She wasn't sure his story about identical twin transvestites really did top hers, but the way his face lit up as he told her about the bail hearing and the footie pajamas was… Cute. Really cute.

She looked down at her glass. Almost empty. No wonder she was thinking he was cute. He was a lot of things, but cute?

"I'm having another. Do you want another?" Barba asked, sitting up and searching for the waiter, bright-eyed the way he hadn't been all week.

Maybe just one more drink. Couldn't have dessert without a drink.

 

The alimony line, the phone calls, it all slipped her mind when she swung by Barba's office around noon. Court was in recess, and she wanted to see if he was up for lunch. A friendly lunch of the sort they'd been having occasionally for the past couple of weeks. Sandwiches. Or maybe wraps, she was feeling like having her food rolled, and Rollins was weighing the merits of one over the other as she made her way down the hall, not really hearing the yelling that was growing more audible the closer she got to his door.

Carmen was at her desk, mouth a perfect o of horror as female shrieking filtered out through the closed door. The woman was firing off cursewords like bullets out of a semi-automatic made in Queens; Rollins could only make out about half of it thanks to her accent. Below the steady stream of _fuck_ s and _my fiancé_ this and _my fiancé_ that, Rollins recognized Barba's voice, volume slowly increasing.

"What the hell is going on?"

"I don't have a clue," Carmen whispered, wringing her hands. "I went to photocopy something, and when I came back they were already going at it. I don't- He didn't have any appointments, so- Should I-"

Rollins waved a hand at her, moving to the door, tucking her jacket back so her shield would be clearly visible where it was clipped to her belt. "No, I'll-" but before she could say anything else the door slammed open and she had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit by it.

"Go fuck yourself, Rafael," the woman shouted over her shoulder, stomping out of the room and nearly running Rollins over as she stage-whispered, "Not like anyone else will." She gave Rollins no notice at all, not so much as an _excuse you_ ; she was like a freight train barreling down the hall. Long dark hair bouncing around her shoulders, a charcoal pencil skirt, Louboutins – that was all Rollins saw before she was gone. Too busy getting out of the way to see her face, but she'd remember that walk the next time she saw it. Which would hopefully be never.

Carmen looked floored. "I don't like to use this word, but that woman is a bitch," she said. Rollins silently agreed, and they both peered into the now-quiet office, Carmen leaning precariously far over her desk to do so.

Barba was nowhere in sight.

"I'm just-" Rollins pointed uselessly.

Carmen sat back down, fiddling with her watch strap. "Good luck?"

She walked in slowly, looking around for Barba and leaving the door ajar behind her. Not sure what sort of mood he'd be in, what closing it would signal to him. Privacy or being boxed in? Worth the risk of Carmen overhearing; she could always put the fear of God in her later if she had to.

"Hello, Detective," Barba said from her immediate right. He was sitting at the far end of the couch, out of sight from anyone in the hallway. "What can I do for you?"

Rollins adjusted her jacket and drew nearer. He didn't sound like he'd been doing any yelling. On the contrary, he sounded… Calm. Almost pleasant, though there was nothing pleasant about his expression. Nothing harsh either, just a dull resignation she'd only seen a couple of times before when a case had gone so wrong as to be unsalvageable. When there'd been nothing left to do but accept crushing reality.

Should she sit down? There was plenty of room; he was tucked in close next to the arm of the couch, hands pressed palms together by his knees. If it were anyone else Rollins would think he was making himself look smaller – less of a target – on purpose, but that was ridiculous. Barba didn't do things like that. He didn't sprawl like some people she could name, but he knew how to occupy a space, and more than confidently.

She sat down next to him, not touching but still close. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he said, totally at odds with how he stared. There was a window across from him, curtains open and offering a blue sky view of nearby buildings, but she doubted he was taking it in. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to ask you out for lunch," she said, even though what she really wanted to ask was none of her damn business. Winced when he slowly turned to boggle at her and she thought back over what she'd just said. "Sorry, I…" Whatever correction she was going to make died as she took in his wide eyes, the flush spreading over his face. "That came out wrong," she said slowly, blushing in turn like a teenager with a crush and not an adult who'd simply misspoken.

"Right. Of course," he murmured, breathing faster than before. She could see it; his tie was loose, the top button of his shirt undone. Nothing unusual there, except for how she noticed the way the shadows shifted back and forth over his collarbone as he breathed. That was not normal. For her. To notice.

"I meant… If you wanted to have lunch with me," she said as he got up, moved to his desk to flip through papers, check his phone. Moved further away, checking the empty carafe before setting it back down. Milling aimlessly around the room, making himself look busy, putting more distance between them.

"No, I- I can't," he said, returning to his desk, clicking at his laptop. "Full caseload, thanks to your unit." Almost accusatory that time, some of his custom snap, but his glance over the screen was more nervous than anything else.

"Oh." At a loss, confused by his uncharacteristic anxiety, Rollins made to leave, but lingered by the door. Should she press? How good were the odds he'd just shut her down? "Barba…"

"Yes?" He was still clicking away, but standing instead of sitting. Too twitchy to sit, she thought.

No point in stating any variation on the theme of _if you need to talk_. He wouldn't talk to her; he would have if he was going to. Maybe if she was Liv – they got on better - but maybe not. Barba had always been closed off, separate from the rest of them, that thing with the mayoral candidate aside. If she offered a shoulder to cry on he'd politely ignore her at best, rudely rebuff her as a junior colleague overstepping at worst. She hoped they were past that after so many years, but there was no telling.

Instead: "Who was that woman?"

He didn't look up from the screen, but he wasn't pretending to type anymore either. "Maria Sofia Veneziano," he said, mouth twisting. "Although I guess it'll be Stafford soon unless she hyphenates this time."

Technically the answer to her question, but also not when they both knew what Rollins was really asking was _who is that woman to_ you? Pressed that extra inch because that was her entire job and she couldn't help it. "And she's…?"

Now he did look at her, not a glare like she expected. Not anything. Just a look, empty, and that worried her more than anything else. "Close the door on your way out."

She did.

 

For weeks the only time they ate together was when the squad dragged Barba in on some case and sprang for lunch to keep him happy, and Rollins kept an eye on him the whole time. More withdrawn since Ms. Veneziano made her grand appearance, he was all work all the time. Much the way he'd been years ago, when he'd first transferred to Manhattan. Not so snarky, but still very much with his eyes on the prize. Winning cases and nothing else.

Ms. Veneziano? More like Mrs. Barba, Rollins tried out in her head. Of course she'd looked the woman up the second she'd gotten back to the station; she didn't bother feeling guilty. Barba had to know she would – he gave her the woman's name in the first place. The only thing she needed nowadays to find out almost anything she wanted to know.

Married in 1998, divorced in 2012, and Barba had never said a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what this was named after. That's right, more Billy Joel. "Brenda and Eddie"! The couple from "Scenes from." I told you I loved that song.


	5. Barollins, the one with all the failed attempts at a first date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba/Rollins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a secret royalty fic - and I even had a huuuuge outline for it - but then I... Didn't write it.

"Do you want to have a drink with me?"

Rollins tongued the beer nut from one side of her mouth to the other before crunching down on it harder than she'd meant to. "Isn't that what we're doing right now?"

Letting out a small sigh like he hadn't expected her to be difficult – which, had he _met_ her? – Barba spread his fingers on the tabletop, hands bracketing his empty glass. "You know what I mean."

"Ah." She lifted her glass, intent on stalling via drinking, but of course it was still empty – Carisi had wandered off ages ago saying something about getting them a refill on their pitcher. Painfully aware of Barba's attention, she grabbed another handful of nuts instead. Nothing like a little stress-eating.

Go out with _Barba_? They- Well. They weren't exactly… They worked together!

Barba had this wry little smile on his face – maybe he _wasn't_ surprised by her behavior after all – but at least he wasn't staring at her or pushing for a quick response. He was just sitting there, long fingers tapping along on-beat to the music playing in the bar. Waiting.

To be fair, she'd worked with a lot of guys she'd slept with. Usually while drunk, often after a set-up exactly like this. After-work drinks, either victorious or commiserative, and the number of times she'd fallen into bed with a coworker was probably on the north side of embarrassing. Barba would not, by leagues, be even remotely the worst person she'd ever slept with. They'd worked together (they worked together! Hadn't she decided to quit doing that after Nick?) long enough for her to know he was a good guy. One of the best, really.

And besides, it wasn't like he was unattractive. That was not an issue. At all. It didn't take much for her attention to wander from the rapidly-emptying bowl of nuts that was meant to be shared to his profile as he watched something across the room. Easy for her to trace the straight line of his nose, track the way his eyelashes slowly fluttered down as he rolled his eyes, light glinting off his hair as he shook his head at-

Barba looked at her from the corner of his eye.

Busted. She wiped her salt-covered hand on the napkin and resolved no more stress-eating.

Instead of calling her out, he tipped his head forward, and she followed his gaze to where Carisi stood leaning against the bar – half over it, really – chatting up the barkeep. Full pitcher of beer sweating and forgotten between them.

Rollins groaned. "That wouldn't happen, right?"

"I'm insulted you'd even imply it," he replied, tone arch, but his expression was hopeful, and Rollins immediately regretted her seconds-old decision. He- This whole idea made her nervous. They couldn't go out. They worked together! He had ten years on her, what did they even have in common besides work? If someone had asked her that morning who the most likely candidate in the squad to date Barba would be, she'd have said Benson. _They_ were on the same wavelength. _They_ were friends. Not her. Why her?

Everything would make more sense if he was just suggesting a quick roll in the hay. But that wasn't what Barba was asking her. He wasn't asking her to go home with him. He was just asking her out. On a date. She couldn't remember the last time that had happened. Men didn't ask _her_ out on dates. Even – or especially – men who knew her history.

"You _can_ say 'no,'" he said abruptly, expression softening as he turned in his chair to face her, hand resting on the top of her chairback to steady himself. "It's not a big deal. I just thought it would be… Fun."

"'Fun,'" she repeated. "Really?" Winced at how disbelieving it sounded, and realized she hadn't really thought Barba capable of having fun. Not the kind of fun she had. Was that unfair? It probably was. Did she think he was stuffy? She did. He worked a million hours a week and was a total fussy clotheshorse and went to the _opera_. And on _skiing trips_.

And he thought going out with her would be _fun._ That was what men said to her when they dumped her, not something they led with.

Barba let out a long sigh but his smile was sincere and – maybe she was kidding herself – a little nervous. "Yes, fun. Just say no already so we can start heckling Carisi for dawdling."

"No," she said promptly, surprising herself.

"No?" His eyebrows rose slightly. "'No' as in 'no you don't want to heckle him' – which would be shockingly out of character for you – or 'no' as in 'no you don't want to go out with me?'"

Rollins thought for a moment. She was getting too old for meaningless hook-ups and FWB situations; hadn't she resolved this year to get her shit together? Be more responsible? Do right by herself? Dating was responsible. _Barba_ was responsible. Besides, she'd already decided she'd totally sleep with him. Dating him would be- At least it would be over quick.

"The former," she said, grinning before she picked up her empty glass to wave it at Carisi as he straightened up, shoving a cocktail napkin in his back pocket before he grabbed the pitcher. "What took so long?" she yelled at him across the bar.

"I could ask the same thing," Barba muttered to her, snickering when she pelted him with one of the last nuts from the bowl, not minding how his fingers brushed her back.

 

She canceled on him. Not out of choice – there was finally a break in this case she'd been working, and if they wanted any shot at catching the perp they had to move on a tip that night, and-

"I don't need a report," he said, cutting her off. "It's okay. Raincheck? Or…"

Rollins didn't know what to think about how he trailed off; she'd never heard him sound unsure before. Doubtful, yes, but not _unsure_. It was a difference of degrees. "Raincheck," she said definitely, grip relaxing on her cellphone. "On me, and don't argue."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Faint sounds of typing on his end – was he still working? "I never turn down free food."

"Oh, now it's food? I thought it was just a drink," she said, gesturing dismissively at Carisi as he secured his vest and gave her an impatient face.

"You canceled on me, now it's food _and_ a drink." Was that a printer? He was definitely still working.

"Fair enough." Glad she had her vest already on when Carisi started tapping his watch, she said, "Yeah, sorry, I gotta-"

"I know, I know." The typing stopped. "Good luck."

It sounded more like _be careful_ but that was probably her imagination.

 

He canceled on her the next time. Well, to be fair they canceled on each other for the same reason, but he got the words out first so it was more on him this time. A fact she made abundantly clear when they ran into each other in the hall, both of them with their phones in hand. Texting each other, as it turned out.

"Fine, fine, I'll buy," Barba said, managing to wave his hands in surrender despite holding his phone, bag, and a large cup of coffee. He really did have enormous hands.

"I always knew deep down you had manners," she said, pocketing her phone.

"Blame my grandmother. Paying for dinner-"

"Oh, now it's _dinner?_ Not just food?" she teased. Where would _they_ go for dinner? She couldn't imagine Barba anywhere lacking a Michelin star. Good thing it would be on his dime, she couldn't afford that sort of thing. Should've been able to, but saving had never been her strong suit.

"Yes, dinner," he continued. "And opening doors, pulling out chairs, I can do it all." When had he gotten closer? But it was a busy hallway, no point in blocking the flow of traffic, although he did seem awfully close when he said, "I'm full-service."

She wanted to laugh at how cheesy that was but Benson was heading down the hall towards them, Fin in tow, so instead she stepped away, cleared her throat. "I- We'll discuss this later?"

Barba's flirty smile faded as he took a step back in turn, nearly bumping a passing guard. "Right. Later."

 

'Later' was put off another three times.

"This is getting ridiculous." He sounded as tired as she felt.

She laid her head down on her desk, cupping her phone to her ear and using the stack of folders as a pillow. "I know. Maybe it's-"

"If you say it's a sign I'll-"

"I wasn't going to say it's a sign," she muttered, although that was exactly what she had been about to say. He'd asked her out a _month_ ago, and neither of them had anything to show for it. Not even sex. She bet if they'd just slept together that night they would've been over and done with by now. It probably would've been pretty good while it lasted, but that was just idle speculation on her part. Hard to tell with lawyers. Some of them were workaholics with a lot of energy to burn off, and some were selfish egotists who just wanted a pump and dump.

He didn't strike her as the pump and dump kind though. Always so snarky, except when he was being sympathetic, listening intently, careful how he handled people. She could picture him being that attentive in bed, or maybe he'd be more aggressive, the way he sometimes got in court. Pressing forward, attacking, and that could be good too-

"You done?"

"Pardon?" She'd zoned out, lying on her desk and thinking emotionlessly about fucking him. She needed coffee. More coffee. And to get laid. She hadn't gotten any action since she'd banged that yogi on the side of a mountain on vacation. Salute the sun indeed.

"I asked when you thought you'd be done," he repeated.

Straightening the folders and blushing like he'd heard anything she'd been thinking, she held the phone to her ear with her shoulder. "I've no idea. Whenever the sergeant says we're done. It's some COMPSTAT torture, it might never end."

The noise he made was something between a hum and a snort.

"Raincheck?" she suggested, half-expecting him to say no. They'd clearly stalled on this too many times, and surely he wouldn't want to-

"No." But before she could start to feel too disappointed, because being conflicted about this all along meant wanting it on some level, he said, "Text me when you're done."

Not the answer she'd expected at all. "This could go all night," she said, looking around the room at all the other detectives with their stacks of files. For something that was supposed to be electronic it was amazing how much paperwork was involved. "I don't want to interrupt your beauty sleep."

"Trust me, I'll be up," he said. "You're not the only one burning the midnight oil. Just… Call me. When you're done." That hint of uncertainty again, like maybe he expected _her_ to call time of death on this whole thing.

"Alright," she said slowly. "I will. Remember, this was your suggestion."

"Believe me, I haven't forgotten."

 

Three, almost four in the morning, and Rollins finally got her answer on what sort of place Barba would be willing to grace with his presence for the purpose of dinner. Although…

"It's more early than late now, isn't it?" she said, feeling kind of punch-drunk with exhaustion. Give her a round-the-clock case any day to the kind of administrative slog she'd just been through; at least there was an adrenaline rush with the former. "Shouldn't we be having breakfast?"

"Have it if you want," he said, glancing at the menu. "All-day breakfast."

"Oh. Great." She looked at her own menu long enough to see pancakes before she went back to looking around. It was busy despite the late hour, and only half the diners seemed any flavor of intoxicated. The music was a bit loud, but not loud enough to ruin conversation if you leaned in. And everything smelled good, especially whatever the people one table over were having. To think she'd claimed to be more tired than hungry when Barba had met her at the station.

"Trust me, you're not," he'd said, not looking too fresh himself either. "Have you been living off coffee and Red Bull all night? You need actual food."

"I hate Red Bull," she'd replied, but let him have the point and hail them a cab.

"Do you come here often?" she asked, and had to repeat herself when he didn't catch it the first time, leaning over the table between their glasses of water.

"I used to, when I was younger," he said, not leaning back. His eyes were a bit bloodshot. Had he let her cancel on him again when he'd had just as much work to do? Devious. "Back in college. Not as much now."

She looked around, tried to imagine a younger Barba in somewhere like this. Maybe wearing mint green Bermuda shorts and boaters, like the guy at the bar doing a shot. Failed. "You don't seem the type to have left the library much."

His nose scrunched up. "Are you calling me a nerd?"

"No, just…" She was going to say _studious_ , but- "Yes. I am. Are you telling me you weren't?"

The menu came back up so he could subtly hide behind it, lips curling up… Shyly? Was he shy? Barba could be shy? "Even nerds have to eat."

 

They worked best at last minute, and it came as a surprise to her that they worked at all. She'd been right – they really didn't have much in common besides work and all the baggage that went with it, like similar feelings on things like justice, women's rights, politics. Just the _heavy_ shit. Everything else… Not really.

Traded college stories that first night as she ate buttermilk pancakes and Barba had salmon with _purple_ mashed potatoes – New York really did have everything – and their similarities began and ended with "attended." He went on scholarship to NYU right out of high school, she fell into GSU a year or two after graduating by the skin of her teeth and realizing it was either get a degree and get the hell out of Loganville or stay there and end up like her mother and all the rest of her family, useless and on a first-name basis with the local bail bondsman.

Picked up with family a few days later, sitting in one of the parks in front of the courthouses. Both of them on separate recesses, and the weather was too nice to not get a breath of air. Not fresh, never fresh in the city, but air nonetheless and not too humid as they ate their sandwiches and drank Snapples. They didn't even get the same flavor.

"Lemme guess: only child," she said, stealing his pickle.

"What gave it away?" Half his sandwich had fallen apart and he was carefully rebuilding it.

"Picking up on tells is what I do, and you've got all the classic ones." Should've said _clues_ but even after six plus months on the straight and narrow she still found herself falling into the old jargon. She pushed it aside, focusing instead on the near injustice of his pickle being crunchier than hers had been. Wasted on him. "What about cousins? Amaro had loads."

"Are you implying something about our shared heritage, Detective?" He gave her the side-eye, but smiled anyway when he got his sandwich reconstructed. "No, none on the maternal side. My mom's an only child, and her mother was too."

Her sandwich was long gone; she'd wolfed it down straight off. More stress-eating; she was on the stand that afternoon. Was this turning into a habit? She didn't need any more bad habits. "What about your dad?"

Barba paused mid-bite to resettle his hands on the bread. "I've never had much contact with my father's side of the family."

Daddy issues? Something else they had in common, not that she'd press for more basis for comparison. His tone – matter-of-fact disinterest that only came from long practice – told her exactly how sore that spot probably was despite so many years.

Barba, to his credit, had very few sore spots. His father, his parents' marriage, religion – he became remarkably closed-mouthed on those three topics. Anything else took only the slightest provocation to get him talking, which was simultaneously refreshing and a little disturbing. She'd never dated – and they _were_ dating, albeit extremely haphazardly and largely at the whims of their respective schedules – anyone with so few… Issues. Was it possible he was – gasp – well-adjusted?

Rollins didn't do well-adjusted. She did damaged. She did fucked up. They both knew it, and they both knew how little they had in common, and yet they persisted in dating. It was surreal.

 

The score was 7-6 Yankees in the eighth, Barba was being unbearably smug about their sudden rally, and it just slipped out.

"You realize this will never work, right?"

He set his glass of beer down on the bartop with a lot less swagger than he'd picked it up and leaned over to say in her ear – because of course they'd ended up in a sports bar eventually, she was still herself – "Why, because I'm a Yankees fan and you're not?" At least he hadn't asked _what_. He never played stupid with her, or made _her_ feel stupid. Even at work when he criticized her it was never personal, and always justified. Experience hadn't taught her to expect either of those things. Maybe that was why she kept clinging to this even though it was doomed to fail. Sad.

She could smell his cologne when he sat so close. Close enough to hear him over the blast of noise from the inebriated fans around them, the rumble of the televisions.

"Well, yes," she said lamely, reaching for the mini-pretzels and stopping herself at the last minute. Let her hand drop to the bartop, curl into a fist instead. What was she going to say? That they were too different? That she badly wanted to leave to use the payphone to call a bookie – she'd learned the hard way not to call from her cell, that always meant changing her number when she didn't pay up quick enough – and see if she could still get any action on this game? That the reasons she hadn't could be counted on one hand and one of them was Barba was sporting jeans and a backwards sun-faded Yankees ballcap? That it was such an unbelievable sight she couldn't tear her eyes away but for seconds at a time, and she'd hate herself forever if she got up to go put money she didn't have down against the team he secretly loved with all the passion of someone who'd grown up in the heart of the Evil Empire?

Even in her head it sounded overwrought. True, but overwrought.

She was about to reach for a mini-pretzel when Barba's hand covered her own, pressed it gently against the damp bartop. His skin was soft, wet from the condensation on the sides of his glass.

"If you want to go, just say so." There was concern in his eyes as his fingers curled around her hand.

Did he think she was having some kind of… Gambling freak-out? She kind of was. While also not. Rollins was pretty sure he was too normal for her, and that's what was freaking her out. But she couldn't say that out loud. "No, I'm- It's fine." Twisted her hand around to grip his, and great, now they were holding hands. How many dates had they been on? They hadn't even kissed. And now they were holding hands. She'd be fifty by the time they went to bed together.

But it was nice, holding his hand, and nicer still how he grinned at her when she said, "Game's almost over anyway, right? Can't miss the last inning."

His grin disappeared pretty quickly when the game was abruptly preempted for breaking news, and it was impossible to make out what the serious-looking anchor was saying over the thunder of disappointed groans and boos from the people packed into the bar around them.

Rollins squinted up at the scrolling ticker, trying to make sense of the rapid jump-cuts of phrases and pictures. A plane crash in the Hudson? Royals? There was too much going on around her, too many disinterested people moving away.

Barba wasn't one of those disinterested people. He sat staring up at the TV, riveted, clutching her hand now, and she looked from his face to the television.

"According to sources, it appears the _entire_ royal family of [XXX] perished in this tragic accident," the anchor said somberly. "We'll have further updates as the situation develops, but for now it appears that a plane accident, as yet unexplained, has resulted in the deaths of the entire Barba line, the ruling family of [XXX]."

 _Barba?_ But surely it was a common name, she thought, taking in the live video footage of the fiery debris scattered across the Hudson. No miracle this time, and what was _with_ all the plane wrecks lately?

"Ow!" She tried to pull her hand away, Barba's grip gone tight enough to hurt.

"Sorry. I didn't- Sorry." He released her, wiped his hands on his thighs thoughtlessly as he ripped his gaze away from the television to rest instead on his glass. In the shitty lighting of the bar, the glow of the television, he looked wane. Pale under his tan, giving the game no attention, and she was about to ask him if _he_ was alright, if there was any chance at all that _those_ Barbas were possibly _his_ Barbas when the anchor interrupted the game a second time to more boos.

She couldn't make out what the anchor was saying at all this time thanks to the torrent of abuse being hurled by the drunks around them, but she recognized that headshot that suddenly filled the screen. A professional job, full-color, and she knew they always told you not to smile in them, "neutral expression," but there was a hint of a smile to Barba's lips anyway. Like he had a secret.

_LOST PRINCE FOUND?_

Apparently he did. Maybe she should've pushed about his family a little more. Not that it had ever been any of her business.

He was already on his feet, one hand cupped over her shoulder as he leaned in to say, "We need to go."

"We need to talk," she corrected him, sliding off the stool as casually as she could, tracking the movements of the people around them. Had anyone noticed the similarity between the man on the big flatscreen and the one currently swigging back the last of his beer before he took her hand again.

"We need to _go_ ," he said, eyes darting around, and yeah, people were starting to notice. The barman had dropped his cloth to point at him, and Barba led her through the crowd to the door, turning his ballcap back around. Incognito mode, she thought, and squeezed his hand as he pushed the door open and they stepped out into the heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, no Billy Joel this time. Sorry.


	6. Barollins, the one where Barba's mugged and Rollins takes care of him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba/Rollins. Character has PTSD.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much what it says on the tin. Heavy on the UST since I never finished it. Not that they were going to bang anyway. I think.

All Rollins wanted was to go home to her dog and the carton of Phish Food that was calling her name, but she still had to drop off a file. That's what put her in Robbery/Homicide on a Friday night, half-sitting on Mahoney's desk and chatting with his partner. She owed Mahoney from a month or so ago, and now it was her turn to scratch his back. Figuratively, of course. He was married and she had a _no married guys_ rule. Well, a _no_ more _married guys_ rule.

If she hadn't shaken her head in disgust at one of Lao's jokes she never would've seen him. Barba, across the room, following a detective out of the lieutenant's office. A little strange to see him on this floor since he prosecuted sex crimes, but that wasn't what made her stand up.

It was the ice pack he held to his cheek, the visible red on his stark white dress shirt, the way his shoulders curled in protectively.

"When did he come in?"

Lao followed her gaze to where Barba was now taking a seat. "Hour-and-a-half, two hours maybe? Hey, isn't he your-"

Rollins didn't wait for the rest, dropping the file on the desk. "Make sure Tom gets this? Thanks." One hand on her holster as she hurried over, slowing her approach when she got close enough that Barba noticed her. He froze mid-sentence, eyes widening slightly at her appearance before turning his attention back to the detective.

"This is a waste of time," he muttered, standing up abruptly, chair scraping out and away from the desk as he reached for the stack of folders on the desk. There was a sway to his stance that worried Rollins; she darted forward to catch his arm, steadying him, and heard him suck in a sharp breath.

"What's going on? Are you alright?" She didn't take it personally when he jerked out of her grasp and sat back down, free hand slipping from the folders to rest on his thigh. Avoiding her as much as she focused on the shocking sight of him, bloody and dissheveled. Eyes lingering on his split lip, barely scabbed over, a red as brilliant as one of his pocket squares.

"And you are…?" A quick once-over of the detective whose interview she'd barged in on didn't reveal anything familiar. Well, nothing besides typical macho annoyance at a woman interrupting his work. But besides that, he wasn't anyone she knew. Yet.

She extended her hand for a quick shake. Easy on the death grip; maybe he wasn't so bad. "Detective Amanda Rollins, SVU. We work together," she said, distracted. Barba had lowered the ice pack to fix the damp paper towel that covered it, revealing a nasty contusion on his cheek. Obviously assaulted – were there other less obvious injuries? That near-gasp before, the way he sat at a slight tilt – bruised ribs? Surely if he needed medical attention he'd be at a hospital, not here.

"Just a sec, Mr. Barba," said the detective – Gracey, according to his desk plate – as he stood, interrupting Rollins's increasingly concerned thoughts. " _Don't_ go anywhere." As if Barba had tried before. When all he got in response was a soft grunt of acknowledgment, he nodded to Rollins. Led her over to the ancient coffeemaker, glancing back repeatedly at Barba. "You work together?"

"Yeah. Look, is he alright?" Even half a room away she couldn't stop staring. Barba looked so… Wrong. His phone was normally glued to his hand; now all he did was sit and hold a cold pack to his face. Not a spark of interest shown in the late-night goings-on in the Homicide bullpen.

She crossed her arms. "He wasn't…" Didn't know how- No, didn't _want_ to finish that sentence. At least he wasn't giving a statement to someone in her department. Thank God for small favors.

"Your colleague was mugged," Gracey said, pouring a cup of coffee for himself, setting the pot back on the warmer when she shook her head. "At gunpoint. Not too far from here, actually. Had a few drinks at a bar after work, stepped out to catch a cab. Changed his mind and opted to walk to the subway instead, got dragged into an alley – no surveillance, of course. As for the rest… You know the drill."

No wonder he hadn't sent a single text since she'd seen him – no phone. No watch either, now that she was looking for it. "They clean him out?"

"All of it," Gracey confirmed, adding sugar to his sludge. "Wallet, phone, watch, keys. Bag."

That caught her attention. "Bag? You sure it was just a robbery then? He _is_ a prosecutor-"

Gracey gave her a look. "Please. This isn't my first time at the rodeo." He sniffed the carton of half-and-half before adding a splash to his coffee. "Besides, you think all that paperwork's mine?" He looked over his shoulder at Barba, whose free hand again rested on the stack of folders. "They pistol-whipped him after he asked for his case files. Said something about how they'd be able to get away faster with an empty bag than a full one."

Rollins rubbed a hand over her forehead. "Typical."

"Ballsy." Gracey's voice was rich with approval as he stirred his coffee. "They roughed him up pretty good for it."

The Barba she knew would've gotten impatient by now with how long their chat was going on for. He would've been looking over his shoulder, tapping his foot, pointedly checking his phone or his watch. This Barba just sat there. "You keep saying 'they,'" she said, piecing it together in her head the way she'd been trained.

"'They' is all we've got." A weary exhalation that Rollins knew only too well. A case with no legs. "Two perps, all-black clothes. Probably male, judging by height, the one's voice, how hard they hit him." Gracey drained his coffee, lobbed the empty cup under-hand into the trash. "That's it. Nothing really workable, not that I'd say that to him. No point telling him what he already knows."

"He was right then," she said, drumming her fingers on her forearm. "If you've got his statement-"

"Lieutenant herself already met with him. ADAs get kid gloves around here," he replied, waggling his eyebrows. A sentiment Rollins would've ordinarily agreed with had it been any other ADA.

"-And a list of things taken-"

"I'll get it out to the pawn shops, and I already sent a couple of unis over to check his apartment." He shrugged broadly at her. "They _did_ take his keys, right? Like I said: not my first rodeo, Detective."

"-Then he might as well leave," Rollins said slowly, giving him a narrow look. "He can follow up with you tomorrow?"

"Works for me, but only if you're willing to take him." There was something like pity in his eyes when he looked over at Barba, hunched in his chair. Unnatural. "Asked him earlier if there was anyone we could call for him, family or whatever, and he just said nah."

"My sergeant would kill me if she found out I let him fend for himself," Rollins said. It was true, but it wasn't the entire truth. She knew what it was like to be alone in a situation like this; she wouldn't do it to someone else. Never did if she could avoid it.

And he'd do the same for her.

"So would mine." Gracey gave her another one of those easy shrugs. Not bad after all.

 

Rollins was willing to take him, but that didn't mean Barba was willing to go. Not with her, anyway.

"I'll be fine, Detective," he said as they stood waiting for the elevator. He'd agreed readily enough in front of Gracey, but now, loaded down with a case number written on the back of a business card and a plastic bag for his files, he was giving her static. "I can get-"

"A hotel room?" She didn't mean it to come out so sweetly ironic.

Instead of glaring at her the way he normally would've, Barba just deflated as they stepped into the empty elevator car. Like the bloodstains all over his collar, the lapel of his jacket, it was a reminder of how wrong the whole situation was. He should've been snapping something back at her.

"I have a couch," she said, breaking the silence. "It's not a five-star couch, but it won't kill you to-" Winced. "Look, I'm not just dropping you some place by yourself, Liv would freak. If you want, I could call her or-"

" _No_." His cheeks were pink as he stared ahead at the elevator doors, but then he was still holding the ice pack to his cheek. "No," he said again, softer, sounding slightly congested. His nose didn't _look_ broken; she hoped for his sake it was merely bloody. "She has enough to worry about, what with Noah and- No."

"Fine. No. I get it." She racked her brain, trying to think if Barba had ever mentioned _anyone_ else. Any friends, or family- "Your mom then? Maybe she-"

"She's in Florida, visiting family," he said. His cheeks weren't getting any less pink. It had spread to the tips of his ears as his tone became more curt. "Let's quit the guessing game while I still have some pride left, alright? I'll take the couch."

Just in time for the ding of the elevators to open to the parking garage. Rollins pulled her keys out, spinning them around her finger as she walked, conscious of Barba following a few steps behind. "I could always call Fin, you could make a boys' night of it," she said idly as they neared her car.

"I'm sure Detective Tutuola doesn't want me being his wingman." He held the ice pack away, revealing the start of what promised to be a spectacular bruise. "I'll pass."

"So I guess that rules out Carisi too, huh?" The look he shot her as she keyed the door locks was almost nasty. Reassuring in its own weird way, though that faded once she pulled out of the garage.

It was the silence.

She'd been in a car with Barba before; he talked. Sure, it was almost entirely about work, but he talked a _lot_. To her, to whoever was on the other end of the phone, sometimes to himself as he scrolled through emails or answered texts. Once, on a long trip upstate to talk to a witness, she'd caught him humming along to the radio, singing Hall  & Oates under his breath. The man simply wasn’t built for quiet. Sort of like Carisi in a way, not that she'd dare make the comparison in Barba's earshot.

And he was so _still_. It made her nervous, how unmoving he was. Not a fidgeter, but always in motion. Normal Barba would've been flipping through one of those file folders he had in the bag between his feet, scribbling notes or dog-earing pages of interest for later consideration. Complaining about how he'd have to call the bank, cancel his credit cards, tell the phone company not to charge him for any long-distance calls. Handle all the petty annoyances that came from being mugged, and he'd complain the whole time but he'd be getting it done quicker than she could say _assault with a deadly_.

This Barba did nothing of the sort. He stared out the windshield and he held his ice pack and that was it.

Rollins turned the radio up and kept her eyes on the road.

 

There were a couple of unis waiting for them when they arrived at Barba's apartment to pick up some necessities for a weekend away from home. Rollins stood in the front hall chatting with him while Barba wandered in and out of rooms, picking things up and setting them down seemingly aimlessly.

"No one in or out as far as we can tell," said O'Halloran, hands resting on his belt. "Nothin' disturbed." His partner had seized the opportunity to run to the local bodega for a snack, despite Barba's mumble that they could help themselves to the fridge. Stuck on guard duty for the night, but at least the building was air-conditioned. They'd have been walking the beat in the muggy night air if it hadn't been a prosecutor's keys that were snatched. Couldn't be too careful.

She nodded, watched Barba disappear into the apartment. Cozier than she'd expected; she'd never set foot in the place before, and – when she'd bothered – had always pictured it as an ode to open concept modernity. Lots of white. Clean, maybe a bit spartan. Everything in its place.

The reality was different. There was a pile of unsorted mail on the small table in the front hall, bills and flyers mixed together. One of the honey-colored walls was covered in a mess of framed photos – people of all sorts smiling, laughing, some out of focus. One in particular caught her eye: a black-and-white photo of a small group, everyone in graduation robes, making faces and holding diplomas, what looked like a very young Barba front and center, beaming. Harvard? Maybe sooner, undergrad at NYU?

There was a bang that startled both her and O'Halloran, their hands automatically going to their holsters, but they settled when Barba emerged into the main hallway, rubbing his elbow and carrying a bag before he passed by the overstuffed royal blue couch to disappear into another room deeper in the apartment, beyond the living room.

Rollins looked back at the photo, wondering why he was staying with her. Why he hadn't called anyone, friends or ex-classmates, coworkers from the DA's office, to pick him up from the police station. What if he'd landed in the hospital instead? His mother was in Florida; who was his secondary emergency contact? Benson? It wouldn't have surprised her before, but now she frowned, considering the picture. Wondering how old it was.

"Alright," Barba said, hefting a brown leather overnight bag. "I'm ready."

Her frown vanished. "Did you want to grab a shower before we go? Or maybe-"

"No." Again, his tone was definite but with none of his usual fire. "Let's go if we're going."

Rollins wasn't sure what it was that was forcing him out despite his state. He'd gotten a splash of coffee on his shirt once, perfectly concealable if he left his jacket buttoned, and he'd still changed. Appearance was everything, yet here he was with far more than a coffee stain. The blood had dried crimson and startling. In his own home, with his sleeves rolled up and the faint tanline of a watch strap visible around his wrist, he looked far worse for wear than he had back at the station. The dull resignation of his slumped shoulders was both foreign and familiar to her. She understood it, but she'd never expected to see it from him.

So what was it? Fear that once he stripped down and got in the shower he wouldn't get out? Or that he wouldn't feel comfortable doing that again? Despite having experienced both, Rollins couldn't guess one way or the other.

"Okay," she said.

 

_"Empty your pockets," he said – the taller one, closer to him, close enough to shove him again if he wanted – and Barba was trying to do too many things at once. Had to get a good physical description without being obvious about it; had to remember the little details while doing what they said; had to keep a leash on his angry pride – his fear – so as not to give them an excuse to kill him. He'd seen – heard – too many cases where a perp, already on edge, had responded poorly to a wrong comment or sudden move. Tried to keep his slow and obvious, but it was too many things and he was succeeding at none of them because the gun came up again._

_"Empty your fucking pockets." Louder, and the other one, smaller, startled, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, getting ready to dart back to the end of the alley again to check for cops._

_Barba tossed out his wallet, his keys, which hit the ground at the guy's feet with a jangle. Hesitated over tossing his phone too, but when the guy urged him on, gesturing in a_ hurry up already _motion with the gun, he lobbed it underhand. Not wanting them to have it but not wanting to break it either. It skittered across the asphalt but remained intact, to his utterly inappropriate relief. At least one thing would survive this._

_"Now the bag."_

The sound of a door slamming somewhere in the building, close enough for him to feel it through the wall, set Barba jerking upright, blinking through the shower spray. For a moment he'd been back in that alley; his heart, thundering in his chest, believed he still was, and he closed his eyes. Thought he'd duck his head under the water and let it beat down on him, warm him up, remind him of where he was, but it didn't work. Closing his eyes meant seeing that gun pointing at him, glinting in the night. The blur of it rushing towards him, cracking him across the head, and he couldn't shake it. Just like he couldn't shake the headache he'd had since then, persistent despite all the Advil the cops had given him at the station.

Maybe it wasn't just from being pistol-whipped. Maybe it was something else, stress, or the resurgence of the migraines he'd had when he was younger and thought long gone. Undergrad all over again, when he'd been fighting with his father over his scholarship, and he hadn't had any money then and he might not now. Standing in a junior colleague's shower, knuckles pressed to his forehead as if he could only exert enough pressure then everything wrong with him would be right again, while a couple of petty thieves – did they count as petty if one of them had a 9mm? – were probably running up the bill on his credit card.

He had to call Visa. And the bank. And the co-op board, get his locks changed because he couldn't risk them getting in and cleaning him out. They had his wallet, all his ID, his phone – they'd know where he lived. Those unis wouldn't be standing guard forever, it was on him to do something. At least he'd managed to keep his files, he'd had enough steel in his spine to accomplish that.

Speaking of files, he had to talk to whoever was responsible for the DA's office, although he doubted they'd be able to get in there even with a key. But now he needed a new ID badge. God, he needed a new _phone_ , and he'd have to set up his contacts all over again, change his passwords…

Barba sighed and leaned against the chipped tile of Rollins's shower, letting the uneven spray drum against his back, ribs aching where they'd punched and kicked him. The list of things he had to do seemed to grow by the second, adding to his exhaustion. Getting to the station alone had taken forever, something like a forced march down the street, clutching his files and feeling the scotch roll around in his empty belly, conspiring with the throbbing pain in his face to nauseate him.

The plumbing in Rollins's building wasn't great; the water had a rusty smell that didn't do anything for his stomach, and he wiped gingerly at his nose with a wet hand, thinking again it had to be his fault. But no. It was just the water.

It still hurt when he touched his swollen cheek; he flexed his hand spasmodically when he noticed his fingers shaking, held under the spray. The water pressure visibly weakened, chilled before regaining power and heat, and he dropped his hand, reminded again that he wasn't at home. Picked through Rollins's collection of bottles on the rack, resentful of all the body washes and shower gels, convinced she had to have shampoo in there somewhere. This wouldn't be happening if he'd been at home, if he hadn't been such an idiot and just waited for a cab. He wouldn't have forgotten his toiletries, shaving kit, because he wouldn't need them. He wouldn't be lathering up with something that smelled strongly of honey. He'd be at home, taking a shower in his own bathroom, maybe half-drunk by now because it was Friday and he had the day off tomorrow. His own shower with its excellent water pressure and its pulsating jets and its snow white grout, not… Here. Surrounded by beige and faded aquamarine.

Dried blood clung determinedly to the side of his face; he scrubbed it off with one bubble-covered hand, gritting his teeth at the twinge of pain, exactly what he needed to feel more miserable.

The sound of a door slamming nearby made him jump again, water running down his face and sending shampoo straight into his eyes, and he swore quietly as his heart resumed its earlier flutter in his chest, his fat lip stung sharp as the shampoo sluiced over it.

 _Fucking ridiculous_ , said the reasonable side of his brain. It was probably just Rollins, not some intruder, not the men from before come back to finish the job; the other half was in a panic, sending a tremble that sliced through him as he screwed his fingers into his eyes over and over, trying to get the shampoo out. Half-blind, face aching, wet and naked and what if it _was_ an intruder? What if someone barged in, tore open the cheap plastic shower curtain and- What? Recreated _Psycho_? Stupid beyond belief for so many reasons, starting with Detective Amanda Rollins, the best shot in the squad, and ending with Frannie.

He didn't feel any better once he was out of the shower and had raided her medicine cabinet for extra-strength Tylenol. Dry-swallowed three tablets before he got dressed. Hardly ready for anything in sweats and a tee, holding his dirty clothes in his hands as Frannie approached him, tail wagging, and even the dog coming at him too quickly was enough to put a jump in his pulse. He had to get it together.

"Did you want to rinse those out?" Rollins asked from the living room, cellphone sandwiched between her ear and shoulder, eyes widening briefly at the sight of him. He half-expected her to comment on his appearance, make some crack about his pajamas not including a necktie, but instead she said, "The laundry room is just- Yeah, hi, I'd like a large-" and held the phone away to ask him what he wanted on the pizza.

Barba shrugged, wandered off to find this promised laundry room, walking carefully like that would stop his headache from growing. The other cops would've said something, he was sure of it. They'd ribbed him shamelessly over his polo when he'd gone to Benson's little party – but maybe Rollins's southern manners prevented it. The possibility made him feel rude when he thought the laundry room was more like a laundry _closet_ , but she had her own stacked washer and dryer, and a little tub with a bucket. Good enough. The blood all over his shirt darkened as the water got at it, turned the materials translucent as they floated in the rapidly-filling bucket.

Why was he bothering? They were just shirts. He could buy new ones; he had last time he'd ended up with blood all over his sleeves. Second time in two months.

Frannie was observing him from the hallway, head tilted. Intent on following him, it seemed, but at least she didn't bark.

"I just got pepperoni," Rollins said when he returned to the living room. "Can't go wrong with a classic, right?"

"I'll pay," he said, going to his duffle, which had migrated to the end of the couch at some point. "Since you're-" paused as he unzipped the side pocket where he normally kept his wallet.

"Don't worry about it, I would've gotten one anyway," she said, half-sitting on the back of the couch.

His bed for the night.

"How's your face?"

He looked up from his stony consideration of her couch to her open concern; resisted the urge to touch the cheek she was staring at. The pain had sunk to the level of a steady pulsing he'd been largely ignoring in favor of his head. Counting the minutes until the Tylenol kicked in. "Fine."

The way her head tilted slightly – now he knew where Frannie got it from – told him she knew he was lying, but she didn't call him on it. "You really should keep icing it on and off," she said, narrowly avoiding condescension. "Where's the ice pack?"

"It's-" but the coffee table was bare of any of his things. Just a TV remote, a couple of magazines, an old paper – no ice packs. Hadn't he… He rubbed his forehead, struggling to remember where he'd put it. When he'd last had it. In her car? No, at home, definitely at home, when- He couldn't think.

"No worries," Rollins said, pushing herself up from the couch to heading for the kitchen. "I have corn." It was about the only thing she had in her freezer, he thought after following her and observing as she pulled it out. One bag of corn, one carton of what had to be Ben & Jerry's, and what might've been a bottle of vodka; she hefted the former, gave him a small smile that made him look down at Frannie. His shadow.

"C'mere," she said, beckoning him forward, Frannie trailing after. The bag of corn sat on the counter as she pulled out a first aid kit from under the sink and popped it open, and he stood there unsure as she rifled through it until she gave him a push towards a bar stool he hadn't noticed.

"Am I going to be fit for court on Monday or will I be wearing a bag over my head?" A weak attempt at levity but when he licked his bottom lip and tasted blood he thought he knew the answer. Watched Rollins pull on a pair of latex gloves from the kit with an unfamiliar sense of defeat, and strove not to feel nervous as she raised her hands slowly. He couldn't help leaning back anyway when she made to touch his face. Stupid; of course that's what she was going to do. She wouldn't hurt him.

 _Not on_ purpose, said the idiot part of his brain. The more persuasive part.

"I'm just going to check your nose isn't broken," she said slowly.

"They already checked at the station," he said, frown feeling heavier than usual thanks to his split lip. His nose had stopped bleeding a few hours ago, and this was a clean shirt.

"I'm glad, but… Humor me?" Looked him in the eye and projected calm. "Please? I just want to double-check that you're alright." He'd seen her play the Doubting Thomas before at work and coax all sorts into going along with her, victims and perps alike. Worked now, because he found himself nodding in acquiescence, relaxing until she began to poke at him.

"Ah," he hissed as she touched his face, the bridge of his nose, and his shoulders hunched, fingers splayed over his thighs, pulsing in his head only growing. Frannie, staunchly in his corner, whined in sympathy from where she sat on the tile floor beside the stool.

"Sorry," she murmured, and turned away to rummage in the kit for some supplies.

Barba took the opportunity to pat at his upper lip, around one nostril, feeling for fresh blood and finding none. Thankfully.

"No bag for you, Counselor," she said, with a quick grin before she began dabbing cool ointment on various parts of his face with a q-tip. "No stitches either, but I'd hold off on hitting the DMV this weekend. Wait until some of those bruises fade."

"Shit." Driver's license – something else to replace. His eyes slid shut as she spread ointment over a cut at the edge of his eyesocket, near his temple; it almost felt… Nice. If only she could make the painkillers work faster. Or better, if they already were and this was what he was left with. That couch was going to kill him.

Should've insisted on staying home, at least he'd have a bed-

"How're your ribs?" she murmured, and his eyes snapped open.

No point in asking how she knew. "Fine." Maybe if he kept saying it it would be true. "Thanks for asking," he added, and if it came out snippier than he'd meant there was no taking it back.

"Can I see?" Finished with his face, she pulled her gloves off, the q-tip wrapped inside one, and took a step back, waiting. Giving him room to decide.

He knew what she'd see if he lifted his shirt – a soft belly he'd been trying to jog off and bruises scattered over his side and chest. Proof that he'd long since forgotten whatever self-defense lessons he'd learned the hard way growing up. The other cops had already seen the damage, photographed it for the record with a dispassion he normally appreciated but had only made him feel ashamed for mentioning it in the first place. It wasn't that bad, didn't even merit a hospital trip, hardly worth mentioning-

"Never mind," Rollins said, shaking her head and busying herself by tidying up. Gloves in the trash, Polysporin back in the kit.

Guilt rose unbidden. "They checked at the station, when they-"

"I know, I wasn't thinking," she said, waving a hand, hair falling loose around her face as she shook her head again. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine." Aiming to shut down the conversation, stop her from… What, blaming herself for his discomfort? It wasn't her fault. "I'm fine," he said again, and saying it over and over again wasn't having the effect he'd intended. It was making it less true, less believable.

Because he really wasn't fine. He ached, and not in the usual ways he'd started to since hitting 40. Not the odd twinge of a knee or a shoulder, the burn in his eyes when he'd been up too late reading briefs and emails written in too-small fonts. A different ache, something forced on him by people who might've-

Barba took a breath, deep until the diffuse throb over his side caught, triggered the hot pulsing in his head that made it feel like his brain was too big for his skull, and he was never bothering with Tylenol again. Might as well have taken Tic-Tacs. He gestured as loosely as he could to the bag of corn sitting over on the counter, sweating a puddle onto the formica. "So are you going to pass that to me before or after my face turns purple?"

Rollins dragged a flower-patterned tea towel off the handle of the oven door while rolling her eyes, wrapped it around the bag and-

He was ready for her to lob it at him, moving to catch it, feeling a snap of annoyance when she laughed at him. Even Frannie had started, and now sat smacking her tail against the floor. He'd do the same if he could, though he knew she was just getting him back for his rudeness.

"Sorry," she said, fighting her smirk, and held it up to his cheek, pressed the scratchy towel to his skin with the same care she'd shown before. It was the chill leaking through the thin terrycloth that made him suck in an unsteady breath, not the way her smirk faded as she looked at him so critically, blue eyes skimming over every mark, every scratch on his face. Very blue in the cheap fluorescent light of her kitchen, and intense; when she touched his chin he tilted his head willingly, wondering if she could see all the marks, the long-faded scars from decades ago. There was a thin line that curved along the corner of his jaw, invisible so long as he didn't use the wrong soap or let his skin dry out. Could she see it?

He worried, sometimes, that he wouldn't stand up to the kind of close examination he put others through.

"I'm sorry," she said again, soft enough it didn't hurt his ears. "That was shitty of me."

His exhalation was gratifyingly steady. "It's-"

"Don't say 'fine.'" She dragged his hand up from his lap to hold the bag of corn to his face. "It's not fine. It's okay that it's-"

The abrupt banging at the front door jolted him, proving her point that no, it wasn't fine, and he didn't have anything to say in his own defense, no jokes to make or snide remarks about bad timing. Couldn't even look at Frannie, who'd let out a single bark in alarm.

"Must be the pizza," Rollins said slowly.

He didn't bother nodding, afraid of what it would do to his head. Of course it was. Who else would it be?

 

"Barba."

No response. Was he dozing? After the day he'd had she wouldn't blame him, but she also knew he'd be better off actually lying down if he was going to get anything approaching a good sleep. It wasn't the worst couch to sack out on – she'd done it plenty of times with only minimal complaints from her back.

"Barba," she said again in a low voice, reaching out unthinkingly to touch his arm. Barely laid a hand on him, felt cool skin below the sleeve of his navy tee, before he startled violently, defrosted bag of corn hitting the floor with a muffled _thump,_ surprising the dog. Jerked away with a sharp inhalation and the hurt noise he made immediately after was the last straw.

"It's okay." Backed up a little, gave him some space, and she recognized that bleary-eyed confusion. He'd been jumpy all night; rookie mistake. She could've kicked herself. Didn't move until he was breathing – not _easier_ , but less panicked, one big hand pressed to his side, and he glared at her.

"What the hell?"

She rose from the couch, scooped the corn and towel up and dropped them on the table next to the pizza box as she walked past him before moving on to the kitchen. Should've done this earlier, insisted on it for his own good. Shooed Frannie to her crate as she came back with a Ziploc bag full of ice cubes, Barba watching her warily. Less wild-eyed and anxious than before, but still not anywhere near his normal self.

"My face feels-"

"Fine, yeah, I got it." Could've been less curt, but it was too late when she settled on the couch beside him, hefting the clinking bag in her hand. "Your face might be fine, but that's not the only…" Didn't want to say _problem_ , so she just gave his chest a pointed look that made him blush and look away, eyes skipping over the half-empty pizza box on the coffee table – four slices for her to Barba's one-and-a-half; completely uncharacteristic of him to not devour the whole thing by himself – to the fourth or fifth episode of _Ballet Moms_ playing at low volume on the TV. Bad reality television cured all ills in her opinion, providing a rough entertainment while requiring zero brain power. Just the ticket, she'd thought, and had kept up a running commentary to fill Barba in and try to draw him out. He normally had an opinion on everything, but he'd only grown more withdrawn over the night despite her best efforts. She'd wanted to keep him busy, keep him distracted. Keep him from going over what had happened, retracing his steps, beating himself up for making the "wrong" decision.

The look on his face when she'd asked to examine his ribs earlier had told her he'd already been doing that. Backtracking, remembering. She'd seen Barba annoyed, irritated, embarrassed, remorseful; she'd never seen him humiliated. It didn't suit him.

 _I'm fine. It's fine_. Nevermind that it was a lie, he'd said it so many times that the word had lost all meaning. He wasn't fine. Not at the moment. Not tonight.

Felt a cube of ice slide from the main part of the bag to an empty corner. "Barba, please."

"For my own good," he muttered, and she knew she had him when he reached out for the bag.

"Let me see. Just to check," she said, pulling the bag away before he could take it from her. He was moving slow and ginger; it didn't require lightning-fast speed on her part to keep it out of his reach.

His frown intensified and he sat back, leaning against the arm of the couch. Staring. Not glaring, which was good, but something tired and heavy with resignation. Something that said _I can't be bothered fighting anymore_ as he twisted a little at the waist and lifted the hem of his shirt.

Rollins sucked her teeth at the sight of the mottled reds and greens, even the odd splash of maroon. Nothing darker, thankfully, but she knew how much that mini-rainbow could hurt. "That sucks," she said, and he huffed a laugh and winced right after, regretting it. She looked away from his pained face, knit eyebrows and tight mouth, back to his bare side. The hot shower had likely helped with the ache but not the swelling; he flinched when she brushed her fingers over his side, pushing his shirt out of the way to check his back. Nothing too bad; most of the damage was on the side and towards the front.

She scooted closer, then: "This is going to hurt, but can you breathe in for me?" Rested the flat of her palm where the bruising was the worst, where the one guy had kicked him, and he shuddered, clenched his eyes shut but did as she asked. A deep breath, like a doctor would ask for, and she knew from experience how much it hurt. But there was no worrisome shifting under her palm, nothing out of the ordinary anyway.

"Are you going to wrap me in saran wrap like a mummy or am I fine as is?" he asked in a whisper. Volume the only thing from keeping his voice from shaking as she moved her hand steadily further up, stopping every few inches to press, note his reaction.

"I don't have x-ray vision but I think you're- Not _okay_ okay, but… Okay?" His skin was hot, almost over-heated, smooth on his side until she moved her hand further up and inwards, over the front of his chest where she felt coarser hair and his heart hammering behind his ribs. It wasn't until she pulled her hand away, brushing the hair the wrong way and producing a shudder in him, that she realized how close they were on the couch. How she was leaning over him, had him cornered on the couch as she practically felt him up, and when had her other hand landed on his thick thigh for balance? His grey sweatpants were so soft from a lifetime of washing that she had to fight not to stroke them.

"I-" she cleared her throat, pulling further back. Ignoring how tight the t-shirt's sleeves were around his biceps, rubbing over a bruise she hadn't noticed before. Bruises all over his body she hadn't seen; she ached in sympathy, remembering what it felt like to be jumped in public. Punched and kicked, no one to help or make it stop, and when he shifted, leaned heavier against the arm of the couch and then thought better of it when his ribs reminded him of their condition, she felt like a piece of shit.

"Here," she said, nudging his hand, still holding his shirt up, and then eased the bag of ice cubes against his side. Slow as she could manage, figuring his shirt would be buffer enough, thin though it was from age. The letters spelling _HARVARD_ were barely shadows on his chest now, but it would be enough. _Was_ enough; his hand covered hers once more, holding the ice to his side, mouth dropping open on a silent gasp of relief as the cold spread quickly.

Her fingers were numb when she pulled away, pretending she didn't notice how the neck of his t-shirt was discolored, still damp from when his hair had been wet from the shower. Without any product in it, his hair had dried soft and shiny; if it had been longer it might've been slightly wavy. Instead it just looked… Touchable. And there was a downturn to his mouth even now as he pressed his lips firmly together, the anxiety that had been wafting off him all night temporarily banished as he savored the feel of the ice against his aching ribs.

"Thanks," he said. Opened his eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy green, to look her in the face. The way he did whenever he said something important, something he knew neither of them wanted him to say but had to be said nonetheless. "Thank you."

She turned away, tucking her loose hair behind her ear. "You're welcome." There was still pizza left in the box, Coke in the cans. It might've been nice. Sitting on the couch, sharing a pizza, watching bad reality TV at the end of a long week. She didn't often have company over, so this could've been… Nice. Even with Barba. It wasn't like they didn't get along normally, although sometimes she thought he said things just to piss people off. Never anything offensive though, so nothing to hold against him. They could've been-

Nothing. They could've been nothing. They _were_ nothing.

Cleared her throat again before she got up. Might as well wrap up the pizza for later. "You should be fine. Ribs are tricky, so you'll probably be sore for a few days. Don't overdo it." Forced a smile as she picked up the half-empty box, bag of corn stacked on top. "Go easy on the work-out. Lay off the crunches for a couple of weeks."

"Ha ha," he said, rolling his eyes, but there was the faintest blush visible in his cheeks as he resettled his grip on the makeshift icebag. Was he trying to forget the way she was how her hands had felt on his body?

 _Now is_ so _not the time_ , Rollins told herself angrily, tearing aluminum foil off the roll. _Don't be an asshole_. Sure, it had been a while since she'd had anyone – any _man_ – over for company, especially after Nick split for California. And sure, maybe she was a little lonely, but she had more self-respect for-

No, she didn't, she thought glumly, wrapping pizza slices up in already-crinkled foil. But she respected _Barba_ ; he deserved her best, even if it wasn't very good at all. Pay him back for some of the things he'd done – or tried to do – for her. He'd been through something horrible, he didn't need her… Being stupid.

Even if he was subdued and sweet-smelling, vulnerable in a way that had always appealed to her instinct to mother. Nate, Nick – she'd always liked them a bit broken. But that wasn't Barba. Not normally. Normally he was… Well. Stable. Animated. Unfazeable. Her coworker, almost her boss in a way. Even if he _was_ attractive – impossible not to notice that, considering how he was constantly drawing attention to himself both in and out of court – he was no one she would ever think twice about.

And he was certainly no one who would ever think twice about her, especially not knowing what he did about her history.

 _Don't be an asshole_ , she thought again, shoving the pizza in the fridge. _Don't be stupid. Just… Do your job. And be a friend. That's what he needs right now. Nothing else_. Definitely didn't need her all over him on the couch, taking advantage of his condition-

"What's your blanket situation?" Barba asked, and if she'd had her gun she would've drawn it. He looked blandly unapologetic about creeping up on her; maybe she'd done him some good after all.

"Let's get you sorted," she said brightly, forgiving him instantly and winding her nerves down from eleven. Resisted the urge to lay her hand on his upper arm and turn him around, lead him out of the kitchen towards the linen closet. She'd touched him enough already.


	7. Barollins, the one with the pregnant sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba/Rollins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IIRC I wrote this for Jenny's birthday. It's pretty straight-forward unrealistically perfect sex, it just happens to happen while Rollins is pregnant. Because fuck you, Leight, that's why.

Getting drunk on a Wednesday night was not normal behavior for Barba, but given how his week had already developed he was willing to indulge himself. Or maybe drown himself – it didn't seem like such a bad idea at the moment. He'd need more scotch to manage it though. He was signalling the bartender when he saw the far door swing open to admit Detective Rollins. Sighing, chin in his hand, he imagined for a moment she had been sent to make peace with someone else. Like the guy twenty feet away, who tilted dangerously on the stool, mouth open to say something to her until he registered her belly. Then it was back to the scuffed bar and his fifth beer.

She showed no sign of noticing it, but he knew she had – she was a good detective. Noticing the little things, reading body language – it was her job. And she read his well enough to know not to bother with chatter after she heaved herself up onto the stool next to him, small white hands pressed flat to the bartop for leverage.

The bartender finally wandered over with his scotch and gave Rollins a questionning look, eyebrows high until she asked for a water and he drifted away again. She didn't say anything even after she had her drink; the tinkle of ice moving in the glass got the better of him. He hated silence.

"How'd you find me?"

"Put a BOLO on you." Her lips twitched in a repressed smile, but he knew how close to the truth that likely was. Lot of cops in this city. Lot of eyes. And Benson probably gave her an idea of where to start looking to find their pissed off prosecutor. Though why she hadn't come herself-

"Are you alright?"

He didn’t bother looking up, just continued to stare down at his scotch. Should've been drinking it on the rocks. Shouldn't have been drinking on an empty stomach. "Why are you here?"

A rustle of clothing as she turned towards him, her knee nudging his leg briefly before she shifted, drew back. Gave him his space. "To see how you are. And…" Dry humor crept into her voice, but the sincerity didn't disappear when she said, "I'm the only one you didn't yell at."

"You can tell your lieutenant I'll be back tomorrow, bright and early, to clean up SVU's latest mess," he said before taking a long swallow of his drink, hoping the liquor would wash away some of the bitterness that had risen in him as effectively as its smell obscured the drifting scent of her perfume.

Rollins wisely didn't try to rebut. It _was_ a mess and everyone – _literally_ everyone thanks to whoever'd leaked it to the press – knew it. Wrongful entry, accusations of intimidation, possible civil rights violations, _police brutality_ – Christ, they'd only gotten worse in the last few months. They joked about _him_ needing a vacation, but from where he stood it was the SVU squad that could do with two or three weeks of leave. Administrative, like what the mayor's office had threatened him with for the second time in a month.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted after a long pause, drumming her fingernails against the glass.

"So don't say anything," he said, closing his eyes. He shouldn't be here; he should be back at the office, starting in on the tsunami of appeals that had hit his desk that afternoon. Or at home, getting some sleep. _Trying_ to get some sleep; he spent most nights staring up through the dark at the ceiling and thinking. Worrying.

 _It's just a run of bad luck_ , he could imagine Rollins saying. Cases that seemed neat and tidy until they exploded in your face; defendants who refused to plead out; cops who forgot how things like due process worked. _Everyone hits a rough patch._ He was due. It would pass.

Right.

He drained what was left in his glass and waved a heavy hand at the bartender, shooting Rollins a challenging look. But she held her tongue. Of course, he thought meanly. If anyone was going to tell him to stop it wouldn't be her, not with her track record-

Ignorant to his increasingly vicious train of thought, she smoothed a hand over her belly, gulping down half her water as her hand drifted back and forth, creating and then erasing folds in the fabric of her buttondown shirt. The sight put an immediate stop to his mental criticism, replaced the uncalled-for spite with enough guilt to smother him. She hadn't done anything wrong; she didn't deserve his cruelty, unspoken though it was.

"I hate playing janitor," he said petulantly, responding like a child caught acting out. As if he could excuse his own wrongs by pointing out others'. He leaned his elbows on the bar, watched as the bartender refilled his glass. Last time, he thought. Last one.

"You shouldn't have to," she said, using her good cop voice on him. The kind, sympathetic tone she broke out for upset victims. Was it deliberate? Did she even realize? _He_ noticed, but that didn't stop it from working on him.

Barba sagged further on the stool, sipped his scotch and sighed as he swiveled slowly back and forth, the side of his foot dragging against the floor. "Why are they such a pack of fuck-ups lately?" Over-enuciated his words; it had the unintended effect of stripping most of the bite from his question. Made it sound as tired and confused as he felt.

"You know we're only…" Rollins stopped, closed her mouth when he finally looked at her. At his bleary glare a blush rose in her cheeks, barely noticeable in the moody lighting of the bar. She was often pink-faced nowadays, from warmth or exertion or just being so full of life; it shouldn't have been anything remarkable. But he let it distract him from her failed defense of her squad, let the sight of her biting her lip against further justifications hold his drunken attention.

"Yeah, we're all just trying our _best_ , aren't we," he slurred, mouth twisting in a grimace as he turned away from her again, feeling ugly and unsteady. The intimate half-light of the bar threw strange shadows over her, made her hair look whiter somehow. He struggled to ignore it, feeling hot; he tugged again at the knot of his tie, finding it so loose he might as well take it off, shove it in his pocket. Risk some wrinkles, but he wouldn't. He had enough things to deal with. Better just to leave it.

"Barba."

He grunted as he threw back his drink, set the empty glass down with a dull _thunk_ and a grimace.

"I'm sorry about the case."

Maybe it was the change of scenery: the low-volume depression of other lonesome workaholics eager to obliterate their day, hoping they could drink enough to forget that they have to wake up tomorrow and do it all over again. A change of scenery, change of position – sitting closer together than he'd realized, the press of her knee against his thigh insistent.

Maybe it was her expression: knowing, regretful, as exhausted as he felt, unchanging no matter how long he stared at her.

Maybe it was the sad fact that she was the nicest thing he'd seen all week. Eyes bright and sparkling even now, lips full and rosy, and she hadn't done anything _wrong_ but he still felt vaguely angry at her. That she should be so stable when everything around him seemed to be crumbling. Wasn't _she_ supposed to be the disaster? He wanted to resent how their fortunes had reversed, that even with a baby on the way she seemingly kept her calm. Meanwhile he was struggling under what he used to handle so well: the cases – victims – that never stopped coming; the DA breathing down his neck; the media alternately hounding him for comments or picking his performance apart; a mayor's office that was ever eager to remind him that _no, Rafael, there are no friends for you here. You killed any chance of that when you indicted Alex, and now you get to reap the rewards._

Maybe it was how in that apology he heard more than _I'm sorry about the case._ He heard _I'm sorry about your week. Your month. Your grandmother. Everything that led to you sitting here alone._

Maybe it was how she laid her hand on his bare forearm, just below his rolled-up sleeve. A shiver rippled through him as her fingerpads brushed against his skin enough to telegraph _I'm here, you're_ not _alone_.

Or maybe it was all the scotch. He really should've had it on ice.

Whatever it was left him leaning in towards her, moving slow enough that they could both see the approaching car crash. Fully expected her to get out of the way, hold him back with a hand on his chest, ask him just what the hell he thought he was doing. But she just stared at him, even as he tilted his head, pressed his lips deliberately to hers. Inclined dangerously on the stool, keeping his balance with one arm on the bartop because touching her anymore than he already was was out of the question.

Because it was wrong.

Because he shouldn't have been doing it in the first place.

His pulse was pounding when he drew back, licked his lip. "That was a mistake," Barba whispered, blinking hard, dazed by how big and blue her eyes were. Every breath he took was full of the delicious smells of her: flowery shampoo and something sweeter, richer. Her perfume, probably, and even as he tried to say _I shouldn't have done that_ she cupped his face and kissed him back.

He was tired and drunk and he hadn't kissed anyone in far too long but that was no excuse for how he sank into her, and now he did need to steady himself on the bar as she gripped his hair, held him in place and deepened the kiss. Eyes shut tight, all he focused on was her – her face against his, her lips against his, the wet slide of her tongue against his. Could she taste the scotch he'd been drowning himself in? _Stop, we shouldn't be doing this, I'm drunk, you're pregnant, we work together_ – it all disappeared. His entire terrible day, week, month, _year_ , vanished as she sucked on his lower lip, and it was enough to make him forget their circumstances until he stroked a hand down her side and she made a noise in her throat, pressed her belly against him.

"Fuck," he said, pulling away, head spinning as he sank back onto the bar stool, felt it rock under him and wondered when he'd stood up in the first place. If what had just happened was real. "This isn't what I do." He wiped a shaky hand over his face, gazing sightlessly at his empty glass of scotch. One too many, that's what it was. He didn't- Jesus, he was half-hard already. Too long since he'd been with anyone at all, and now here he was, practically throwing himself at her, and she was-

"Let's go."

He looked up. "What?"

"Let's go. Let's get out of here," Rollins said, laying her hand on his forearm again. Slid it down to his wrist, his hand, squeezed it before giving it a tug. "C'mon."

"That's not a good idea." When he made to pull his hand away she tightened her grip. That shiver from before reappeared, charged through his veins and went right to his cock. "You know it isn't," he said, a note of desperation in his tipsy mumble.

"I'm not leaving you here alone," she said levelly. "You can... I'll make you a sandwich. You can call a cab from my place." It sounded reasonable, but they both knew it wasn't going to happen that way. The way her smile went crooked betrayed the lie.

He was her superior. It was on him to say _no, I'll cab it from here, it'll be fine, I can make my own way home_. It was on him to say _no, we're not doing this. It's wrong_.

Maybe if she hadn't released his hand only to squeeze his thigh instead, forcing him to consider that she might be as lonely, as hungry for some semblance of a connection as he was.

"Let's go," she said a third time, voice lower as her thumb rubbed a circle over his pantleg."Do yourself a favor and take the easy way out for once, Counselor."

"Alright," he found himself saying, already reaching for his wallet. "Alright. Just once."

 

The taxi ride to her apartment was silent except for their brief disagreement over who should pay, and Barba got his way in the end by being too disagreeably obstinate for Rollins to bother with. It killed some of the tension that had developed, the awkward awareness that he wasn't really going over for a sandwich or a cup of coffee or even a case file she'd forgotten. He was- He couldn't remember the last one-night stand he'd had. And that's all this was going to be.

"Where's Frannie?" He looked around her apartment – he'd only been here once before, but he distinctly remembered a dog. By all accounts, one of the few things to put the fear of God in William Lewis.

Rollins looked surprised – of course he knew her dog's name, he wasn't a total asshole – before she shrugged off her coat. "Sonny's taking care of her for me. She's…" Frowned, gesturing impatiently for his coat, but he suspected it wasn't his delay that annoyed her. "She's a bit more than I can handle at the moment."

"Oh. That's nice of him," he said neutrally, feeling distinctly off-balance at the reminder of her condition. What the hell was he doing here? He could get his coat back, that cab might still be sitting at the curb-

She touched his hand, took it in hers after a brief hesitation. "I won't tell him you said that if you promise not to tell him I called him Sonny," she said, smiling over her shoulder at him as she led him through the apartment.

Barba tilted his head, considerably less interested in her decorating and more in the sight of her walking before him. How the messy bun of her hair lay against the back of her neck, how her shirt pulled in unfamiliar creases at her sides, how her slim fingers felt wrapped tight around his. He'd thought if they ever did this – and he _had_ thought about it, just as he'd idly imagined fucking any of his other colleagues – that they'd _both_ be drunk. Up against a wall, hot and heavy the moment they got in the door. That it wouldn't include this deliberate march to the bedroom, him stumbling when she pushed him towards the bed.

He'd half-expected it to be unmade, but he was wrong. The duvet wrinkled under him as he sat down on it, bedsprings having the nerve to creak outright when she joined him. Slower moving by necessity; when she reached blindly behind her for support he took her hand, helped her ease down next to him, and just like that she'd reeled him in close, his necktie wrapped around her hand, her mouth on his.

He was fooling himself if he thought he would leave. He wasn't better than this.

"I think I'm- How drunk are you?" Murmured her words between kisses and sighs as he tipped her head back to kiss along her jaw.

"Not enough to justify this," he said before he sucked at her neck, wincing inwardly as what he'd said sank in.

But if anyone would understand what he meant it was her; she laughed throatily, unhurt by the comment as she pushed her hand back through his hair. "So I'm not- It's just that-" She let out a tremulous breath as he kissed his way back to the corner of her mouth. "No one's- No one's touched me in so long," she sighed against his unshaven cheek as he popped the buttons of her shirt to push his hand into the cup of her bra, gently palm her plump breast.

 _Me neither_ he almost said before she gathered his face in her hands to kiss him soundly, whimpering when he lifted her breast free of her bra to roll the nipple between his thumb and finger, pinch it slow and deep. If he was going to get _anything_ right this week it might as well be this.

"Oh. _Oh_." She curved towards him, eyes dark as she released his tie to cover his hand with her own, lead it away from her chest and down her body. Down, down, gliding over the curve of her belly, firm under her cotton shirt. His other hand was in her sleek hair, guiding her mouth back to his as he smoothed his palm up under the hem of her shirt to rest against the taut underside of her stomach, below her navel.

Despite his suspenders, she'd managed to tug his shirt out of his pants by the time he finally pushed his hand between her legs. They spread instinctively as he slid his hand up her thigh, the spandex of her leggings silky to the touch. He pressed his fingers to her cunt firmly, searching by touch for the bump of her clit and drawing a moan out of her until he found it, causing her to gasp sharply and jerk.

"Like that?" he asked her, fingers moving in a tight circle against her, just above that nub. She felt incredibly warm, even through layers of clothing. Christ, they weren't even naked. They shouldn't-

"Jesus, Barba, faster," she said, yanking insistently at his sweat-damp shirt, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth, wiping away the rest of his reluctance. "Faster."

He obliged, and was promptly rewarded with another moan, higher-pitched and louder and the first in a series.

"Don't- Don't stop," she panted, squirming fitfully, perspiration darkening the hair at her temples as she spread her legs farther apart, hooked one over his thigh like she thought he might leave. "Don't-"

"C'mon, Amanda, c'mon," he said, kissing her head, inhaling the heady scent of her shampoo and exertion. "Come for me, querida, come on."

" _Ah_." She hooked two fingers over the knot of his tie, clinging to it, forcing him to lean heavily into her or risk choking. She wouldn't stop moving, rutting into the pressure of his fingers, only to let out a piercing whine and finally still. Just for a moment, until she shoved her face into his chest, trembling hard. "Oh damn."

He grinned and relaxed his fingers against her, rubbed down to find her hotter yet, slick at the crotch of her leggings. Fingertips traced shapes through the wetness, pressing inwards so she groaned and rolled her hips, pushing towards him and then away, her leg slipping off his.

"More," she said, releasing his tie to yank his suspender strap instead. "Just once, Barba, fuck me just this once. We never have to talk about it." Panted into his ear, against his mouth like he still needed convincing, like he wasn't dying to get his pants off as he helped her lay back on the bed. "I just-"

"Shh," he said, laying a kiss on the unblemished skin of her throat. Unbuttoned her shirt completely so he could push it back over her shoulders, suck at the skin above her breasts. "Convenient," was his only comment as he undid the front clasp of her bra, properly freeing her breasts as she smiled, smoothing his hair back off his clammy forehead. There was something so perverse about it, how she closed her eyes contentedly as he moved to suck one nipple and then the other, one palm pressing to the heavy swell of her belly, the other at the crotch of his pants, hopelessly trying to keep some semblance of control.

"Ah. _Ah!_ " Twitched her hips when he smoothed both hands down her sides, feeling feverishly hot skin, smooth and vaguely chocolately smelling. Got to his feet only to crouch before her as he caught the waistband of her leggings and tugged, helped by a shimmy or two from Rollins until he had them rolled down and off her legs.

"Do you always go commando, Detective?" he asked before he pushed her stubbly legs far enough apart that he could kneel between them, lick at the pale white skin between her protruding navel and where dark blonde curls began.

"Fuck off," she said, biting her lip and wiggling further back on the bed. " _You_ get pregnant and tell me if it's worth the hassle to put on underwear every day."

He held her legs apart as he licked another broad stripe up the underside of her belly, pleased by the sight of her spit-slick skin breaking out in goosebumps. "I don't have to. It's not."

"God." Fists clenched in the duvet, she began to squirm again as he aimed his attentions further down, shifting his hands to better advantage. The mattress squeaked as she moved, as he licked at her lazily, long strokes of his tongue that dragged over her clit. He couldn't see her face, couldn't judge his performance by any other metric than the sounds she made and how her sweaty thighs slowly closed around him, how wet she got the longer he worked.

"Oh God, just fuck me already," she said abruptly, followed by the dull thump of a fist banging against the top of the bed. "Stop screwing around, I can't-"

"Alright, alright, alright," he said, leaning back and licking his lips, clenching his eyes shut as his hard cock twitched in his pants at her impatient tone. Jerked his suspenders off to hang loose and twisted as he rose unsteadily to his feet, feeling faint for a moment as he fumbled with the fly of his trousers. Made the mistake of looking up, looking at her as he shoved his pants and underwear down.

Her face gone intent and hungry, yellow-gold hair a mess around her shoulders as she leaned up on one elbow to shrug out of her shirt, toss her bra as her blush traveled all the way down her throat, over her bare breasts, to the fullness of her round belly, huge and pale and impossible to ignore.

 _If only_ \- He smothered the thought, pushed his shirt up and stroked his cock loosely before stepping between her legs, grateful again that he wasn't a single inch taller because it was perfect. How easily he slid into her, wasting no time but slow nonetheless, careful. Watched her face closer than ever for any sign of discomfort, but she only sighed, relaxed against the bed, eyelids fluttering shut as he took up a gentle rhythm, shallower than he normally liked.

"More," she breathed, releasing the duvet to reach one hand out, touch his hand where he gripped her thigh. "More, please, I- You won't break me. C'mon."

He sucked in a ragged breath and lifted her legs; she wrapped them around his waist, drawing him closer and taking him deeper, forcing him to shorten his strokes so she was whimpering, wriggling on the duvet, her shirt a wrinkled mass next to her arm. The delicious wet clutch of her made him groan, steady himself with palms against her skin, fingers splayed so his hands spanned the sides of her belly.

Legs tightened around him as he skated one hand up her sweat-slick body to fondle her breast, play with her nipple as he thrust into her. Wishing he could go faster, harder, but holding back when she moaned and covered his hand with her own.

"Oh, that's good," she murmured, arching slightly, shoulders rising off the bed as she curved towards him, into his hand, his steady rocking. "That's so good, Rafael."

Maybe it was that, his name on her lips. How it sounded so satisfied, so reverent. How nobody had said his name that way in so long.

Maybe it was how she felt under him, her pulse throbbing against him anywhere and everywhere he touched her. Violently alive and constantly reminding him of it with her grasping hands, her heaving breaths. Her foot dragging down the back of his calf, over the crumpled material of his pants, caught around his knees.

Maybe it was how he could feel the baby move, a barely perceptible wave of motion under the palm he still pressed to her belly.

Or maybe he'd had just that much too much to drink, the booze eroding some barrier that typically kept him from looking at the long series of choices that stretched from his childhood, vowing to never have a marriage like his parents', to now, where between strokes, between rapid breaths, he found himself briefly wishing that-

"Oh, _fuck_ ," she whined as he worked her with a series of jabs, suddenly desperate to come and only holding off until she made that certain sharp noise again, started to shake again, harder than before. Pressed his hand against her belly as she came apart under him, and he gripped her small hand in his, a painful loneliness dropping on him in the millisecond before his orgasm hit him. Like being in that car crash they'd both seen coming earlier – a sudden sense of displacement. It knocked the breath out of him, left him groaning as he strained against her only for terror, sudden and consuming, to replace the loneliness. Fear that he'd been too rough at the end, hurt her somehow, and he was afraid to move until she patted his hand where it still rested atop her breast.

Her smile was like a shock of cold water, sobering; he drew away from her and wiped his face on his damp sleeve, ashamed of himself for more reasons than he could count. Too busy pulling his pants up, he didn't see her smile fade, didn't notice how she pushed herself up to take hold of his irreparably creased necktie.

"Stay."

"This was-" _a mistake_ died on his tongue when he looked at her, blonde eyebrows lowered and eyes filling as he watched. He let his suspenders drop once more. "Alright. Just- Just tonight."

"Just tonight," she agreed, and began to undo the rest of the buttons of his soiled dress shirt.

 

Movement to his right, and a wave of cold air that made him hiss. "What time is it," he mumbled.

"Not even four-thirty," Rollins said, patting his shoulder. "Go back to sleep."

He grunted, rolled over and determined to do exactly that, but he couldn't get warm. The heater was gone, and he was cranky and half-awake by the time she returned. That chill again as she lifted the covers to slide into bed beside him; he turned over, facing her back. "You left," he said, tone accusatory as he looped his arm around her, pressed his face to her neck, her loose hair ticklish against his skin.

"Bathroom. Not my call." The cover shifted as she tucked his hand over the furnace of her stomach, under her breasts; a profound shiver rippled through her. "Jesus, you're cold. I wasn't gone that long."

"Yeah, you were." He snuggled closer, drifting closer to sleep as he ignored the more aware part of his brain that said he should've been getting up, getting dressed, going home. That he shouldn't have been there at all.

As if she sensed what he was thinking, Rollins sighed, stroked the back of his hand. "Don't think about it," she said.

"Because that always works for you." Cringed the moment his words sank in.

She stopped petting him.

"Sorry." He drew away from her, covers slipping away so his chest was exposed to the unreasonably cold air of the room. "I think I'm still drunk," he said, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling. Her pillows were flatter than he liked.

"Really?" She hadn't moved, but she also didn't sound like she believed him.

"No," he admitted. "Just an ass. I'm sorry."

She didn't say anything in response, but she also didn't tell him to leave. He couldn't imagine her having a problem with kicking a man out of bed at five in the morning, but then he couldn't have imagined her getting pregnant either. Showed what he knew.

He could just make out the pale curve of her shoulder where the sheet had slid away, how her side rose and fell with her breathing. Not the slow deep breaths of sleep, and certainly not the quick excited breaths of arousal – he knew what those looked like now. The breathing of someone still awake. Thinking.

"C'mere," she said finally. "I'm cold."

Barba rolled back over, quicker than he'd ever admit to. Resettled around her, inhaling sharply when her icy foot dragged over his ankle. Didn't complain or joke about it – why bother? It wasn't happening again. No point drawing attention to things that didn't matter.

He drew the covers back up and over them. Sleep for another half-hour, and then up to face the day. Face work, the squad, whatever fresh hell the day had in store for him. But for now, it could wait. He could put it all off. Just the once.


	8. Barollins, the one where Barba's abducted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barba/Rollins. Canon-typical violence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In November I attempted to write the abducted!Barba fic of my dreams. And I failed. Miserably. Here it is. It is TERRIBLE. Chunks of utter garbage have been redacted, so I apologize for any incoherence. I'm largely including this thing for posterity's sake.
> 
> With that in mind, there's a lot of OCs and a lot of made-up backstory. Skip it if you hate that stuff.

They heaved him out of the van like they would an overstuffed bag of garbage, dropping him on the sidewalk with just as much care. He didn't get up; couldn't, really, but he liked to think he chose not to. The concrete was hard, cold as the basement floor had been, but it felt nice against his hot face, sticky with sweat and blood.

A hand hooked under his arm and jerked him up a few inches, only to drop him again so his face thumped into the sidewalk. "Jesus, he's heavy. Help me get 'im up."

More hands, a grunt from the coatrack of a man to his left as they worked together to haul him up to his feet, drape his limp arms over their shoulders before they started walking.

"Why don't we just leave him here?" Coatrack asked, breathing hard as they made their awkward way down the alley. Awkward because he tried walking at one point, tried to get his feet under him, but they were big and he was clumsy. Tripped over them, or maybe it was a crack in the broken asphalt that he didn't spot in time because his eye was swollen shut, but whatever it was sent him stumbling forward. Would've fallen flat on his face if he hadn't had helpers, and the group careened into the chipped brick wall of the abandoned building that made up half the alley.

"Should've," said the guy he crushed against the wall. The guy who gave him a hard shove, got him moving forward again with a casual punch to the side. The pain of the jab barely registered over all the hurts, chief among them the throb in his head, like someone was drilling for oil through his skull. "Eddie would'a killed us though, leaving him in the street," Punchie said. "Anyone could find him then."

"Eddie's a fucking idiot," muttered Coatrack as they resumed their long march away from the sickly yellow glow of the streetlights, deeper into the gloom. "A fuckin' prosecutor? This shit is unreal."

"It doesn't matter who he is," Punchie said, teeth-grinding audible. "We don't get paid to ask questions." Hefted him up a bit more as he picked up the pace, kicked some ragged old newspapers out of the way.

"We don't get paid _enough_ ," Coatrack said, dragging them to a halt again. "This isn't just pimpin' girls or selling dope, this is-"

"I heard you the first time." From the corner of his one good eye, he could see the shape of Punchie lean around him to poke Coatrack in the chest with his finger. "Your fuckin' mouth is what landed us here in the first place, cleanin' up after Eddie-"

Coatrack batted his hand away, the force making all three of them sway. "So you admit this is his mess? His mess to _deal with_?" The grip on his wrist shifted, resettled tighter and made him gasp at the blinding bolt of pain that shot up his arm from the cracked bone, the sharp curve of Coatrack's shoulder digging into his armpit. "We do this and we're the ones who get fucked over for it when the cops find out. Not him, _us_."

"The cops are never going to know so long as-"

The disbelieving guffaw that exploded out of Coatrack bounced off the glistening walls of the alley, sent Punchie back a step, arm slipping from his shoulder. The only thing that kept him up was Coatrack's deathgrip, on his forearm now.

"Please, they'll find out. They been watchin' Fermín like hawks for weeks now. They get him then you _know_ they'll get Eddie, and when his ass lands in the frying pan it'll be _us_ in the fire. Believe it. You wanna do twenty-five to life for that clown?"

So far away from the light, with so much blood running down into his eye, he could barely make out Punchie's grimace as he turned to stare back at the van. The driver must have done something because Punchie casually flipped him off before settling his hands on his hips. "So what do you wanna do? We can't just dump him and go. Fuckin' Luis-"

" _Fuck_ Luis, he's got hair for brains." Coatrack shifted his weight, grunted as he wrapped an arm around his waist, trying to keep him from sliding any closer to the ground. "Help me get him to that dumpster and then I'll do the rest."

Punchie grumbled in agreement and took his arm again. They dragged him to the midpoint of the alley, through oily puddles and trash to the row of dumpsters, hard as a boulder at his back when they dropped him on the far side, invisible to the street. Wetter, dirtier than the sidewalk, with a smell that punched through the fog of apathy that filled his brain and made his aching stomach heave.

"Huh, he's awake," Coatrack said as Punchie swore and backed up.

"He almost got my fuckin' shoes!" Punchie swatted at him with a meaty hand, clipped his ear so he knocked against the dumpster with a dull clang as he coughed raggedly.

"Gimme your gun."

The words, like the smell, got through where so many other things hadn't; the side of the dumpster was slippery under his fingers as he struggled to find some purchase, some of them unresponsive as he fought to claw his way up. Like a spider in a toilet bowl, trying to climb up porcelain before the water rose too high to escape.

A blinding crack of pain at the back of his head sent him back down to his knees, and he landed heavily against the dumpster. Slid down to a crumpled heap next to the wall as his ears rang, the blow reigniting the supernova of white-hot pain that had replaced his brains. His eyes stung as he stared into the reeking darkness between the dumpster and the wall; if he'd had the energy to he would've curled in on himself, fingertips brushing the back of his head where he was sure _something_ was leaking out, but he didn't. Instead he just sat there, forehead pressed to the tacky bricks, half-hoping _somebody_ would shoot him just to make the pain stop.

Over the staticky hiss of blood pounding in his ears, he heard a heavy click of a gun being primed. He'd already made one escape attempt; he didn't have enough left to make another.

"I thought you said-"

"Go back to the van," Coatrack said slowly, fighting to keep his voice level. "Tell Luis you didn't want blood on your shoes."

A pause filled only by the sound of his own unsteady whistling breaths, the distant roar of an air conditioning unit. A wet plop against his cheek that would've made him flinch if he hadn't been so exhausted, followed by another. Another.

"Jesus, he looks half-dead already," Punchie said thoughtfully, then snorted. "Work's basically done for us anyhow. We leave him out here-"

"That's the idea," Coatrack said. "Now get going already."

"You better-"

The click of the gun being primed. His breathing grew faster, more panicky. "No, _you_ better."

Grumbled acquiescence from Punchie, then the sound of heavy footsteps retreating.

A shuffling sound; Coatrack drawing closer, gun in hand.

He turned, braced himself against the wall, a whimper leaking out before he could bite his lip to stop it when his crooked fingers took weight. In the dark of the alley it was a strain just to make out the shape of Coatrack looming over him, and his eyes hurt as he fought to find his face, eyelids heavy and uncooperative like the rest of his body.

"Please," he said, licked his lips when it came out in a whisper. Again, louder, as he : "Please, you don't-"

Something hard poked at the side of his head, just above his ear where the skin felt paper-thin. "Turn around."

"No." The gun prodded into his temple harder, bounced as he continued to shake. "No, I'm not-"

If Coatrack said anything in response he didn't hear it. He didn't see his arm come up, didn't hear the gunshot, feel the blow as he dropped, head bouncing off the dumpster's side with one last _clang_. Didn't see Coatrack shove the gun the pocket of his jacket, feel him pick up his limp hand and drag it closer to his body, behind the dumpster. Invisible to the street.

 

_One week earlier_

 

"Rafael!"

Barba rounded a parked black sedan and checked for oncoming traffic before jogging across the one-way street to where Fermín stood in front of the club. In the middle of the day it looked shabby and uninviting, but Barba knew from experience that at night, with the neon bright and the music thumping, it would look very different.

His cousin had always been a hugger, and he wrapped one thick arm around Barba now, giving him a small shake. "How you been? You look good!"

"Same as always. You look better, also as always," Barba said. Fermín, thick and well-tanned, was in his usual flashy attire, jewel-toned shirt open at the collar, leather jacket looking fresh off the back of a truck, but there were new wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, streaks of grey at his temples that he didn't remember seeing before. Both of them getting old. "What's going on? You said on the phone-"

"Straight to business with you, just like your old man," Fermín said, laughing as he let him go to unlock the front door to the club and hold it open for him, oblivious to how Barba's smile grew less friendly, the twitch of a sneer barely repressed.

But as Fermín led him inside, past the bar with its stacks of boxes, across the empty dance floor, Barba's irritation at the comparison was blown away by the relentless stream of chatter his cousin let loose on him and the gusting A/C. About family he hadn't seen in ages, second cousins whose birthday he'd missed ("You should see the twins, they're so big now! They miss their cousin Rafi"), the new house ("Putting in a pool, can you believe that?"), his _dog_ ("Never get a dog, they'll drain your bank account faster than you can say 'roll over'"). All things that had passed Barba by, things that had never been his focus and now seemed out of reach. Not that he resented Fermín having them; he'd never say that.

Yammered on and on about everything but why he'd called Barba in the first place, didn't mention the club or business at all. Which, at first glance, didn't seem to be doing too badly at all – the floor was recently waxed, the sound equipment looked new, and the stage at the back was impressive despite being unlit.

"Redid that last year," Fermín said, pointing to the DJ booth when he noticed Barba looking. "Lotta changes since you been here last."

"I don't think I've ever been _here_ ," he joked, unbuttoning his jacket and sliding into the booth Fermín waved him to. The leather creaked under him, creaked louder when Fermín sat across from him, and he hoped finally they'd get down to brass tacks when Fermín folded his hands on the table.

"I've sunk a lot of money into this place," he said. "Keeping up with the Joneses isn't cheap, you know."

Barba repressed the urge to sigh. "We've been over this, I'm not interested in-"

"Nah, nah, it's not about that," Fermín said, waving a hand dismissively. "I know you're not about this life, you got your own thing to worry about. Enough to deal with there, am I right? Don't need the hassle of the entertainment business on top of that."

"Is that what you call this?" Barba looked around, imagining the crowds, thinking of some of the cases he'd tried that had had their roots in places just like this. Underage drinking, prostitution, battery, assault, trafficking – the list went on and on. No, he did not want a share in his cousin's club.

"All I do is give the people what they want, make sure they have a good time." Fermín shrugged. "What they do with their own selves isn't my concern."

Barba snorted, attention caught by movement behind Fermín, near the bar. A couple of guys carrying more boxes of liquor, adding to the stacks – restocking. "So if you don't want my money-"

"I need some advice. Of the legal kind."

Now he _did_ sigh. Always the same with that side of the family. Always one or the other. "Pay the fine and say you're sorry," he said.

"I wish it were so simple," Fermín said, forehead wrinkling heavily with distress. "It's a bit more complicated. See, I got these employees-"

Barba held his hand up, hoping to stop him before he got started. "If this is an immigration issue-"

"It's _not_ , Jesus, let a man get a word in edgewise for a change," Fermín snapped, eyes narrowed. "We all know you're smart, you don't need to be so eager to prove it, alright? Gimme a minute to explain."

Barba sat back, shoulders hitting the plump leather of the booth, déjà vu making him feel very young. "Alright. Sorry."

There wasn't a hair out of place when Fermín smoothed his hand back over his head, nodding. "Anyway, these employees, they're not illegals, they're _disgruntled_."

 _Employment standards aren't my forte_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he knew there was more coming so he held off on any more smart-ass comments. He remembered Fermín smacking him more than once for them when they'd been kids, and he didn't want to test the man's patience more than he already had. His cousin had the big hands characteristic of the Barba side of the family, and he knew from experience how much a slap from one of those could hurt. Even if Barba was big enough now to slap back.

"It started off simple enough – they think I'm not paying them enough. Fine, we discuss it, I give them a raise, they go away. But then it's not enough. They come back, saying they got kids to feed, bills to pay, school, whatever." Fermín waved his hands in disgust. "I say it's not my fault you don't manage your money better, don't blame me if you buy Jimmy Choo knock-offs and then can't make rent."

Women. Always women with Fermín. He should've known. Barba leaned his arms on the table, decided to wait him out. This wasn't going to be an employment dispute. If _they_ turned into _her_ he was leaving. He wasn't getting involved in one of Fermín's affairs.

"So they get upset I don't give them what they want, and they decide to get back at me." Fermín was all over with assured disgust, looking to Barba for sympathy when he said, "Typical, right?"

Barba blinked.

"Anyway," Fermín continued, confidence fading slightly at Barba's non-reaction. "They come up with this scheme to get revenge or whatever. Kill Fermín, you know. They go to the cops and say I've been bringing in girls from Cuba, like those guys a couple of months ago at that other place, Estrella or whatever. You remember that?"

"Mm." The bust had been big news – dozens of arrests, dozens more women stuck in the no-man's-land of being a victim and being an illegal immigrant. Lot of interdepartment cooperation for a change. Yeah, he remembered it pretty well. Easy when the investigation was still on-going, not that he'd tell Fermín that.

"All over the papers – not that these girls typically read anything besides _Cosmo_ , but they're full of surprises," Fermín said, mouth twisting ugly. " _Big_ surprise when the cops rolled up hard on me a week or so ago, saying they have a warrant, want to take a look around."

Barba couldn't help glancing around again. He'd been on hand a few times when Vice or SVU had dropped the hammer on some club, he didn't need to imagine the chaos of the scene, the angry proprietor yelling, the patrons milling around like confused cattle. "They find anything?" he asked before he could stop himself, remember that he didn't want to be involved. _Really_ didn't want to, if he was reading between the lines correctly.

"What? No! Of course not," said his cousin, leaning in to look him in the eye. Typical of a practiced liar. "You know me better than that. You know I don't do stuff like that."

"Then if you're innocent you-"

"-Have nothing to worry about?" Scoffing, Fermín sat back, arms spread along the top of the booth. "Please, Rafa, don't sell me that tired old shit. We both know who that applies to." He plucked at the front of his silk shirt. "Not us."

Barba grimaced. No way Fermín could know how many times in the last year he'd sat across from someone, some victim or family of a victim, and heard similar. _It's not_ our _system, we don't get the same treatment, if it were a little blonde girl it would be all over the papers_ \- Endless.

Rubbing his fingers over bumps of his knuckles, he watched the people moving behind the bar. Another man, more boxes, but he was talking to someone shorter on his far side. Barba caught a glimpse of blonde hair. A woman?

He was letting himself be distracted. "What exactly do you want from me?"

Fermín was good, he had to give him that. Again with the lean-in, the low voice of confidences shared. "Nothing illegal, nothing unethical. I just want a couple of yes or no's, that's all." Fermín reached out, cuffed his shoulder. "You’re my little cousin, I don't want to get you in trouble. I just need your help."

"I can't, I don't know anything," Barba said immediately. Honestly. "Besides, if there's an investigation going on they wouldn't have told me anyway."

Fermin tapped his fingers on the table. "But you could find out, right? You know people, you're connected-"

Now he did sigh. "Fermín-"

Hands help up to stop him, empty broad palms identical to ones he'd grown up fearing: "Just yes or no. That's all I want. I just want to know what these bitches have been saying about me, who's been running their mouth-"

"You don't know? But I thought…" Barba felt disappointment settle in his gut like a rock as Fermín tried to explain, claimed to have misspoken. Typical. The warm greeting, the poor little old me act, _do me a favor_. _Just a little one, nothing you'll get in trouble for_. And then another one, bigger. And bigger. And then, inevitably, _we're family, how could you put_ anything _before family, I thought I raised you better than this, you ungrateful fucking-_

A crash of bottles, the sound of glass shattering over the floor, thoroughly disrupted Barba's thoughts. He was half out of the booth before he realized it, intent on helping however he could when Fermín whipped around to lean over the back and yell a question at the man by the bar, holding a stack of boxes.

"It's fine, just-" the big man's shoulders started to shake as he looked down at something, sliding his load of liquor boxes onto the bartop. "Forgot to tell Lilah one of the boxes didn't have a solid bottom, that's all."

"You fucking goof," came the angry response. The woman from before. She'd been hidden from view by the boxes, piled high on the bartop, and was only visible when she darted forward to shove the man hard enough to send him staggering back. "I could've been hurt! And look at this mess, who's gonna clean all this up?"

The man just snickered more, arms raised defensively when he said, "Well, you're the one near the mop, so…"

"Eddie, shut the fuck up," Fermín's voice snapped out across the room like a whip, stopping the man's laughter at once. The woman lowered her hand, no longer intent on slapping Eddie.

Barba realized he was still standing when Fermín looked at him over his shoulder.

"Sit down, you're not at home. You're not tidying up after anyone. You want a drink? Your mother would kill me for being so rude." He turned back, waving a hand to get the woman's attention. "Lilah! Bring the Patrón-"

"I'm technically on the clock," Barba murmured, sitting back down in the booth and checking his watch. A quick run across town, meet Fermín for lunch – that's what he'd been promised. Instead it was nothing but trouble and tap water.

Fermín shot him an indulgent look before he called back, "Water for my cousin, the responsible lawyer."

The woman, Lilah, came hurrying over with their drinks, shaking her hair back as she slid them on the table before them, giving Barba a quick smile. Didn't stop moving, set on going back to the bar until Fermín reached out and snagged her by the belt loop.

"You too busy to say hi? Meet my family?" He tugged at her insistently until she sighed, turned around and plastered on a smile for Fermín's benefit.

"Hi," she said, head wobbling slightly as she gave him a coy wave. "Nice to meet you."

"That's better," he said, pleased as he released her to slide his arm around her waist, pull her closer so she was standing with her hip pressed to his shoulder, hand resting over the pocket of her denim shorts. "Lilah here's one of my best employees, you know."

"Really," Barba said, trying to keep his tone light and free of irony as he sipped his water.

Lilah raised her eyebrows at him, smile becoming more fixed as she crossed her arms and shifted her weight, away from Fermín and his hand, which had started to wander upwards, fingers toying with the hem of her red t-shirt. "Speaking of work…"

[REDACTED]

"Be a dear and keep my cousin company while I'm going?" He patted her familiarly on the ass before striding off, already yelling for Eddie and waving him over to the far end of the bar.

Rolling her eyes so dramatically Barba had to fight a laugh, she flopped down in the booth next to him. Surprise enough but she was nearly _on_ him, and when he shifted over to give her some room, she only scooted closer so they were hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and he had no choice but to drape his arm over the top of the bench seat, behind her. _So that's how she's playing it_ , he thought. _Typical_.

Elbow on the table, she rested her cheek against the heel of her palm, staring up at him as she traced a finger down the side of the glass, through the condensation. "Well, this is awkward."

"Moonlighting, Detective?" She was far too close for professionalism; he could smell her perfume. He stifled the urge to lick his lips, settled for thinking about what to do with his hands instead. Set the one not resting on the booth on the table, tapped against the damp wood. "I thought the NYPD paid a _little_ better than this."

"You're pissed, I get it," she said, smile not fading as she looked over her shoulder towards where Fermín and Eddie stood watching them as they conversed by the bar, Eddie holding a mop, meathooks moving back and forth like he was trying to wring its neck in slow-motion. "But to be fair, it's not like we _could_ tell you-"

"Family, conflict of interest, yadda yadda," he said pleasantly, and her smile grew large enough to be seen across the room as she touched the back of his hand, fingers wet and distracting against his skin, stopping him from drumming his fingers in irritation against the tabletop. "I know how it works."

"I _know_ you know," she said, her friendly _fuck off_ expression matching his. The twinkle in her eye was real, even if her wet fingertip tracing down the side of his jaw were pure artifice. It must have been the cold that made him swallow. "Is he coming back?"

He looked past her to where Fermín was rounding the bar, leaving Eddie nodding and going back to his clean-up duties. "Yes."

Her hand slipped from his shoulder down to his thigh as she leaned in to whisper in his ear, "Do us both a favor and stay away from your cousin, alright? Don't make this any messier than it already is."

"Deal," he said, turning his face towards hers, catching sight of her tan skin as her hand slid down to rest just above his knee. The lack of music, the empty club, the unintelligible chatter of Fermín's guys, Rollins touching him – it was all so surreal. And it was only that it had been so long that he was- No. He wasn't enjoying it.

"Good man," she murmured before she pushed herself up and away, hand pressing hard against his leg. "I gotta get back to work, honey," she said, winking at him for Fermín's benefit. "But you come and see us, alright?"

"Alright," Barba said, not bothering to repress his amusement at her honey-thick accent, knowing Fermín would misinterpret it. She was really pouring it on.

"Leaving already? Always in such a hurry," Fermín said, pouting at her before he turned to Barba. "The two of you have that in common."

Rolling her eyes, she said, "Well, if you want more shit broken then yes, let's continue to leave Eddie unsupervised…"

"Eddie's been spoken to." Fermín tossed back the shot of tequila he'd left abandoned on the table before he held the empty glass out to her. "But your point's made."

She tipped her head in acknowledgment, taking the shotglass and tapping it with her fingernails as she gave Barba one last amused look before she turned smartly on her heel. The way her ponytail swung side to side as she walked away was diverting.

"Nice, huh?"

He turned his attention back to Fermín, now lounging in the booth and giving him a knowing stare. "How long has she been working for you?" slipped out before he could stop himself. What sort of backstory had they cooked up for her this time? Always been too curious for his own good.

Fermín's smile was wide. "Long enough to merit a night off if-"

"No," Barba said immediately. He had to leave before he stirred up any more trouble. " _No_. She's… Not my type."

The expression Fermín wore told him exactly how much he believed that. About as much as Barba now believed his line about disgruntled employees. Jesus, he was getting slow in his old age. "Hey, unlike some, she's a _real_ hard worker. I'm just trying to help you both out." _So why won't you help_ me _out?_ went unspoken, but Barba got the hint.

His phone was starting to buzz in his pocket. Their time was up, thank God. "Thanks for the water, but-"

"Duty calls?" Fermín rose when he did. "Look, I hate to nag-"

"So don't," he muttered, pulling his phone out to check the message. One missed call – Benson. Had to be a coincidence, no way did she already know he'd been there.

"-But I'm not asking for anything _confidential_ ," Fermín continued, hand resting heavy on his shoulder as he walked him towards the doors. "Not state secrets. Just a head's up, you know? I just want to straighten this whole mess out with minimal fuss. Minimal cops up my ass. It's bad for business."

Barba shrugged him off, stuffing his phone back in his breast pocket. "I already told you-"

"You don't know," Fermín parroted back at him with more than a hint of annoyance, but it faded as he stepped in to smooth his hands over Barba's shoulders, straightening his jacket. "My little cousin. Always so smart, so by-the-book. I get it." His head bobbed as he pushed Barba's hands out of the way, did up the button of his jacket. "I asked, you said no, the end. Like I said, I won't nag." Stepped back when he was done, mockingly wiped away a tear before he clasped his hands. "Perfect as always."

Barba shook his head, reached out to push the door open, the late summer heat wafting in immediately. "See you at Thanksgiving, En Minuto."

"Je _sus_ ," Fermín said, rocking back on his heels before he gave Barba a push out the door, followed him to stand under the inactive electric sign. "I thought you forgot that."

"I forget nothing." If there was a hint of warning in his tone Fermín chose to ignore it as they let their eyes readjust in the bright afternoon sunshine.

"Maybe we'll see each other before Thanksgiving, eh?" The look his cousin gave him was pensive. "Only seeing each other two or three times a year… Wouldn't want you forgetting who your family is."

Barba wanted to point, say _Ah ha! There it is!_ Laugh, shake his head, flip him off as he walked away. But he didn't do any of that. It wouldn't change anything. Settled instead for a handshake that turned into a back-slapping hug, and he crossed the street again instead of waiting for a cab. It was hot, but it wasn't too far to the subway, and he didn't want to linger any longer. Didn't want to further endure Fermín's attempts at wearing him down, and when he glanced back just the once he saw his cousin still standing where he'd left him, Eddie slipping out the door next to him, both of them watching him walk away. Nobody waved, not even the pair of plainclothes detectives sitting in the black sedan on his side of the street.

 

 

[REDACTED] 

 

Another late night because of course the warrant turned into something bigger, something involving "exigent circumstances" and Carisi thinking night school gave him latitude it didn't, and Barba was halfway through a motion when he sighed, rubbed his eyes, and sat back in his chair. 11PM and here he was on a Thursday night. Twenty years ago he would've been out drinking by now, still deluded enough to think he could balance work and a social life. Of course twenty years ago he'd been twenty years _younger_ , had far more energy than he does now. Far less work, really, and he stares blearily at the boxes full of files stacked next to the wall and sighs.

Twenty years ago he would've been out with friends, hitting the bars, going from one to another in search of better drinks, better music, better chances of getting laid. _The prices are better here- The girls are hotter there- No, we gotta go to this place my roommate's friend's girlfriend told me about, they do this thing with fire-_

He laughed quietly to himself, rubbing a hand against his stubbled cheek, and found himself wondering if Fermín's club did anything like that. Not much of a college dive though, too expensive for that, and that's good because even if Rollins _was_ investigating his cousin he'd never wish drunk pre-law undergrads on her. Would she be working tonight anyway? Fermín had never said what exactly she did; the cops would never put her in as a dancer. A bartender then, too old to be a hostess, and he wondered at how she'd manage. If she had the work experience; it wouldn't surprise him if she did. Could easily imagine her tending bar part-time in Georgia, working her way through college. The tips were probably good; he'd have to ask her next time he saw her, whenever that was. Not anytime soon, though. Not unless he went back to the bar, which would be a terrible idea on multiple levels. Even if all he wanted was a drink, to see the club at night in all its recently-renovated glory. Avoided his cousin, never said a word to him, just popped in to… What, see Rollins? Check up on her?

If he was being honest – and it was late enough, he'd been alone long enough, he'd been at _work_ long enough – he worried. About her. He couldn't un-know everything he did about her past, and something about how Fermín had so casually, possessively touched her; how Eddie had stared… Wanted to think the best of his cousin but couldn't say he'd ever trusted him. Not really. Couldn't claim to be _overly_ surprised to hear he'd gotten into some dirty business, and what did that say about either of them?

And really, truly, _honestly_ … He wondered at the idea of Rollins in that place. He'd seen her in bars before, the occasional after-work drink, when he'd pulled off something spectacular and the squad had taken him out to celebrate, or when everything had gone to hell and the only thing to do was commiserate. But that was different, that wasn't- That wasn't Rollins in something flashy, dressed to catch the eye, smiling big and pouring shots, flirting with customers, slipping bills in her pocket. Writing her number on a cocktail napkin for the right guy, pressing it to her lips before she handed it over so as to leave a big red lipstick kiss and no mistaking her intentions.

Imagined her doing that for him if he stopped in. Wanted to maintain her cover, keep his cousin happy by feigning interest in him, and Barba might've had a shot or two, paid for her to have one with him, and she'd roll her eyes in that exasperated way but do it anyway because it had been a long night and yeah, she needed a drink.

 

 

[REDACTED]

 

 

It was at the same time that they were trying to shove him into the van that Barba remembered he never called Liv. Never told her about his run-in with Fermín, how Eddie – _dumb muscle_ he'd thought – had tried to intimidate him. How strong they'd come on, and he would've bragged a little about how he's immune to that sort of thing. How he hasn't been scared of anyone since Christmas '92, when he was home from college and got into a fight with his father and hit him back. One of the few times he'd ever hit _anyone_ – he'd gotten through school relatively unscathed thanks to Alex and Eddie – and he hadn't enjoyed it but it hadn't killed him and neither had his father.

He's not enjoying this either, wrestling in the dark street with two strangers in ski masks, and it seems to take no time at all for them to get him backed up against the granite wall of the DA building, cornering him so they could soften him up with some blows to the stomach, sides when he brought his arms down to protect himself. Lost his bag at some point, but not before he'd managed to peg one in the head with it, but that was earlier, when he was still on the offensive. Playing defense now and losing ground fast, and he has to do something, make a move to get away before it's too late.

He stomps on one guy's foot, hears a bark of pain and darts forward, shoving the guy he stepped on out of the way, using him as a buffer so the second guy can't hit him again. His nose is streaming blood as he scrambles away, wipes at it automatically with the side of his hand as he picks up speed, hearing shouts behind him. Just have to make it down the street, to the intersection, the avenue where even at this ridiculous hour, so late it's early, there's _bound_ to be someone around, a couple of weary cops or-

Barba thought he was being smart, not turning around to gauge the distance between him and any pursuers, but he realized too late that he wasn't being smart at all because all of a sudden there was at least two hundred pounds hitting him in the back and he was going down in a hurry. Hit the sidewalk _hard_ , all the air rushing out of him and he'd barely gotten his hands out before him in time. Just in time for something to crack, for some _things_ to crack under him, but one of them wasn't his chin off the pavement and that's good, thought a bizarrely cold, rational part of his brain even as the rest of it is screaming.

He couldn't move no matter how much he thrashed weakly around under the third guy – and it _had_ to be a third guy, the other two didn't look _nearly_ as heavy as this one felt – and he couldn't get his hands under himself to push up, the one sending spotlight-bright stabs of pain up his arm when he tried, and he could feel the blood dripping off his face when the guy wrapped one impossibly beefy arm around his neck and started to squeeze.

Tried again to get his legs under him, his hands in place to push himself up, but the guy is fucking _sitting_ on him and it feels like he skinned one of his knees and and and

It was dark outside to begin with because it's always dark at 3AM, even in Manhattan, but it gets a lot darker a lot faster when the stoplight in the distance turns red and then turns off.

 

The leather booth wasn't as comfortable as he remembered it being the first couple of times. He shifts in an effort to get more comfortable, but it's useless – he can barely move, and the seat doesn't get any softer.

A glass of water slides across the table towards him, and when he looks up it's to Rollins, giving him that awkward smile from before. "Sorry about this," she says, one shoulder rising and falling in a half-shrug. "I know you hate it when we don't tell you when we're doing this, but-"

"But you thought I'd never find out in the first place," he said, eyeing the glass. It's sweating, but so is he – it's hot, the air close and thick. Rollins isn't. When he lets his gaze wander from the glass to her arm, resting on the table, up to her chest, creamy skin visible thanks to the v-neck of her t-shirt, up to her face, he doesn't notice so much as a bead of perspiration.

"Wasn't like we were planning on calling you as a witness or anything," she said. "But now-"

"Now I'm involved." The water looked good, but his arms were too heavy to lift it. "Now I won't be finding out the first time by reading the paper, or over turkey. 'Oh, did you hear about your cousin Fermín? Terrible, just terrible. Pass the potatoes.'"

"He's doing it again," said a man from close behind him. "Talking. Should we-"

Barba wasn’t interested in whatever they _should_ do. Not as interested as he was in the soft pity in Rollins's face. "Don't worry," he said. "I won't hold it against you. Your secret's safe with me."

That look again, the sad one he'd seen before, but never directed at himself until now. And then she patting his face roughly, noisy claps to his cheek, and he couldn't get his eyes to focus on the man hunched before him, slapping him awake.

"Fuck off," he mumbled, and the guy snorted and backed away, which was the important thing.

"He's awake," said the slapper, wiping his hand on his jeans before crossing his arms and leaning back to sit on the edge of a stack of boxes. There was a wet smear on his pantleg.

Barba sniffed hard, regretted it immediately when the taste of blood in his mouth intensified and didn't find it any easier to breathe. He lifted his head, knowing he should look around, take stock, remember as much as he can for later, but the throb of pain weighed it down; his chin dropped back to his chest almost immediately. Stared down at his pantlegs, the one torn, revealing the bloody scrape of his kneecap. His eyes traced upward, slow, blinking every few inches to try to focus, but it didn't matter. Just the dark navy fabric of his pants, and then the light blue of his shirt, spattered with shades of red. Blood, in various amounts, all over him, and as he watched a thick drop of it fell from his face to splatter, bloom near a button. Barely missed it.

"Good," said a familiar voice. Someone new bent over him, snapped thick fingers under his nose so he twitched back. "Hey, eyes up."

He glared upwards without lifting his head, seeing the shadow impressions of his eyebrows and, beyond, the glowering face of Eddie.

Who sneered as Barba started to snigger quietly to himself, inhaled sharply again and exhaled just as quick, unsteady. "What's so funny?"

"You. This." Barba closed his eyes, let his head loll back and forth and ignored how queasy it made him feel. "I never realized Fermín was so stupid. I should've, all the evidence was there, but-"

"Hey!" Eddie grabbed him by the shirt, gave him a rough shake that pulled him forward. There was resistance at his wrists; tied to the chair, his one arm with what felt like lava burning its way through his veins. No wonder he couldn't lift his arms. He crooked his wrist, felt the edge of smooth plastic with his fingertips. Some give.

"You don't talk about him that way," Eddie continued, giving him another shake. "He's a great-"

"He's a fucking idiot," Barba spit up at him, wriggling his hand back and forth, feeling the plastic cut into his wrist. "He knows the cops are watching him, and he has you pull this shit? Jesus, I told him I didn't know anything, what does he-" he paused at the sight of Eddie's eyes widening incrementally, his face draining of color. "This was your bright idea, wasn't it?" Not enunciated as crisply as he normally would've – he must've bit his tongue at some point earlier, when they jumped him, and his jaw was killing him – but he could still muster up an impressive amount of scorn. Knew he should've stopped, kept his mouth shut, but it poured out of him in a barking laugh at Eddie's expense because how dare he. "Were you trying to show off? Is that it? You can't even manage to restock a bar without a babysitter, and now-"

Eddie punched him. Probably not as hard as he could've, but he was still punching down, and the blow sent Barba's head snapping back, rocked him and the chair dangerously. Would've tipped if Eddie hadn't taken him by the shoulder to steady him, hold him still to punch him again, and it was weirdly nostalgic, being beaten up by someone so much bigger, but this time no one was coming to save him. Not Alex, not the much nicer Eddie he'd known and betrayed. Nobody.

"Jesus, Eddie!" The blur of the slapper from before started forward out of the rapidly growing darkness on the left side of the room to grab at Eddie's broad shoulder, only to be shrugged off as Eddie, satisfied for the moment, huffed and shook out his hand, rubbed his bloody knuckles. His large ring – rings, two of them, and two Eddies sliding into each other under the bare yellow fluorescent bulb, and Barba wasn't sure if it was swaying or if he was.

The new pain in Barba's face drowned out the drone of the one in his head, the sick sound of his gasping as his vision spun and sparkled. The pain made him want to move carefully, made him want to press lightly at his cheek with his fingertips, check nothing was broken, caved in, but he couldn't, and he twisted his hands feebly against the cheap metal frame of the folding chair, plastic restraints sawing through skin, a whimper leaking out of him when his bad arm reminded him that it was _bad_ , that the burning sensation there wasn't natural. "I don't know anything," he said again, barely above a whisper this time. All he could manage, thanks to Eddie.

"Watch him," Eddie said to the hazy shadow shape behind him, then stabbed a finger hard into Barba's chest, ignoring the slapper's protests. "Next time you should think twice about who the smart one is before you decide to open your mouth."

He could feel the left side of his face swelling, vision darkening, but it didn't stop him from glaring up at Eddie. Stomped down on the urge to laugh again, afraid it might come out as a hysterical sort of giggling and he didn't want to embarrass himself that way. Not yet, at least.

"You can't- What am I supposed to do?" The slapper called out as Eddie stomped off.

Footsteps became louder, ringing off hollow metal instead of hard cement, then paused. "I told you: watch him. Fermín'll be around later. Andro-" a warning note now; he could imagine Eddie pointing at the slapper, _Andro_ , threat obvious as he said, "Don't fuckin' talk to him."

"Alright, alright," said Andro, pulling himself up to sit on the stack of boxes he'd been leaning against earlier. Looked everywhere but at Barba, who was busy staring at one of the many splotches of blood on his pants. His eyes kept slipping shut, but the dark made him feel dizzier, like the chair was slowly rotating, so he fought it. Tried to stay awake by cataloging his injuries. Started from the bottom and worked his way up.

Scraped knee; persistent stomach ache under all the nausea. He shifted, used to reclining in a leather desk chair instead of this cheap shit. Tried to find a more comfortable way to sit and instead found he was stuck in a permanent slump thanks to how they'd secured his wrists, and discovered a new tenderness in his left side that had been mere background noise until then.

His mouth tasted disgusting; he turned his face to the side, clenching his eyes shut at how his brain felt like pile of loose change rattling around in a can before he spit blood on the floor. Let his head tip back after, shoulders sagging as he thought, _sprained wrist, maybe broken_. Hadn't had a broken wrist since he was a kid, when his father-

Well. No point thinking about family now.

 

Andro had gotten a chair.

Barba blinked, or tried to – the one felt sealed shut. Swollen shut, most likely, from Eddie pummeling him. His face ached, itched from the dried blood. It seemed like his nose had stopped bleeding, though he had no idea how long it had taken. Tongued the little cut in his bottom lip and thought there was something disturbing about that chair. He had no sense of time, no idea how long he'd been out for because it had just crept up on him and put him down. His head was killing him.

"You really think Fermín's going to be pleased when he finds out?" Had to lick his lips before he could speak; it barely helped. His mouth, when not full of blood, was dry. When was the last time he'd had anything to drink? Last night. The dregs of his third pot of coffee, the one he'd split with Carmen. "He's going to be pissed."

Andro shifted, continued texting on his phone, and said nothing.

"Abducting a prosecutor," Barba said. "Not smart." Croaked, if he was being honest, and not very loudly, but it was quiet upstairs but for the occasional muffled footstep. No thump of music, no stampede of customers – still closed. Hadn't been difficult to figure out where he was: the basement of the club. Down with the extra stock of liquor, miscellaneous furniture, piles of folding chairs against the wall. Not the _worst_ place Eddie could've stashed him – that would've been on the dancefloor for everyone to see. If the cops were really watching the place they would've seen- what? Something suspicious? Barba could only guess how Eddie's guys had gotten him down here. The various aches and bruises he imagined all over his body suggested they might have just rolled him up in a carpet and stuffed him down the chimney.

"You know the cops are watching this place, right? How long do you think it'll take for them to realize something's going on?"

Andro turtled down, shoulders up around his ears, fingers flying over his phone.

Nevermind that Barba had dealt with cops on long stake-outs before. He knew how their attention could wander, how even veterans could get tired, cold, hungry. Bored. Days of nothing happening could lead them to think a quick run to the nearest diner for fresh coffee wouldn't do any harm. Last call was at 4AM; what was there to watch for? The last of the club kids would come staggering out; there might be a fight, an argument they couldn't break up because they'd give themselves away. The staff would trickle out in the next hour, including their man – woman – on the inside, and-

 _You fucking goof_. The memory of Rollins shoving Eddie rose to the surface, and he twisted his good wrist a bit more, feeling the plastic grow slicker. No give, but maybe he could slip his hand out and- What? He'd still be bound by his other far more useless arm, but one free hand was better than none and he wanted to be of _some_ help when she found him.

Because he knew she would. Fermín was full of shit but he was right when he called her a hard worker. She was probably there every day, and he knew from experience how observant she could be. She'd noticed Eddie's bruised knuckles, his anxiety. You don't keep an assistant district attorney in your boss's basement without feeling a little nervous.

She'd been lugging stock up a few days ago, replenishing the bar – she'd be curious why all of a sudden she was banned from going downstairs. Already on the look-out for suspicious activity, she'd have a hunch something was going on from how the guys looked at each other – because it hadn't taken just one guy to get him in that van. A brief flash of pride at how he'd put up a fight – someone who worked here had to be sporting bruises, walking with a limp. Rollins noticed things like that, had good instincts.

He just had to wait. Keep calm, ignore the aches, the way his mouth kept filling up with blood and saliva, the ever-present urge to vomit that lurked in the back of his mind. He wasn't going to. He could, but he wasn't going to. He was enough of a mess already.

Keep calm. Stay cool. But the silence, the nervous energy Andro was radiating with his jiggling leg, his deliberate avoidance, it gnawed at him. Throbbed, like his black eye. Purple by now, probably.

"What do you think the cops are going to do to you when they find out, huh?"

Shoulders jerked, but that meant Andro was listening after all. That was all the sign Barba needed. He could talk. He could be convincing.

"I know Eddie told you not to talk to me, and that's fine," he said, feeling his jaw creak. His fingers twitched powerlessly. "But you can't let Eddie do all your thinking for you. It's going to get you the death penalty."

Extreme, but it got Andro's attention. Whites visible all the way around his eyes as he bit out, "There's no death penalty in New York."

"Kidnapping is a federal crime," Barba said, voice as level as he could make it. There was something familiar about Andro, something in his lanky proportions, visible despite how he sat with his long legs pulled forward, balanced precariously so his heels just rested on the edge of the case of beer. "You're an accessory," he continued, pouring it on. "Can you afford the kind of attorney who could keep you from getting the needle? I don't think so."

Andro stared, then shook his head, went back to his phone. "That's not gonna happen. Fermín-"

"Fermín will look after himself, just like always. Besides, how do you know this was even what he wanted?" That same seed of doubt had been growing in Barba's chest since he'd realized Eddie had taken the initiative. _Dumb muscle_ he'd thought. How dumb?

That jerk of his shoulders again, a furtive glance to the side. They both knew Eddie acted out sometimes. Wanted to be the big man.

"Just because Eddie said-"

But maybe he pushed too far, because Andro pocketed his phone and stood up, legs unfolding to stilts. Coatrack build, he realized, like Carisi. That's who he reminded him of, especially when the know-it-all tone emerged, "'Sides, nobody ever got the death penalty for kidnapping."

"They did when the victim was dead." Barba's smile was very crooked as he stopped forcing his eyes to stay open. Gave Andro a moment to look at him, _really_ look at him. Take in the whole bloody mess, because he could feel it on him, the blood, the sweat, and there was a tell-tale prickle of wetness down his chin that told him the scab on his split lip had broken. Too much talking. "You think this is going to turn out alright? You think Eddie's going to cover for you or your buddies? Or Fermín? They'll protect themselves."

"I didn't do-"

He blinked hard, one eyelid fluttering, closed it again when the shape of Andro, closer now, didn't resolve into anything more solid than two people. "That's not what they'll say." And left it at that. Gave the kid plenty to chew on while he sat there, feet sliding forward across the cement floor with a dry rasp so he could stretch out his legs. Not anymore comfortable that before, and it put a horrible strain on his arms, but the pain was welcome for a change. It reminded him he was still alive, that this wasn't over yet. He'd all but told Andro that's how this was going to end – he'd seen too many cases of abduction to think they all turned out well, that they'd just let him go free and he'd amble back to his apartment for a shower and a nap. The odds were not in his favor, and he couldn't trust his cousin to help him. Had never been able to trust anyone on the Barba side of his family to step up and do what was right. Should've known better when he met with Fermín that it would be a mistake, but he'd-

Maybe-

His eyes stung when they filled up, and he couldn't wipe his face when a tear rolled down his cheek. Settled instead for ducking his head, rubbing his face against the sweat-damp fabric of his dress shirt.

Where the hell was his jacket?

 

[REDACTED]

 

"What time is it?"

The new guy, Ricky, didn't bother to look at him when he said, "Buy a watch."

Barba kept staring at him. "I did. You're wearing it." Because yes, that was his watch around the guy's wrist. He wondered what happened to the rest of his stuff. His jacket, his bag. If they were smart they ditched his phone, but they haven't been smart so far so he assumes someone's using it.

"Oh yeah." The jackass actually looked at it before he grinned at him. "Almost two o'clock. Why, you got an urge appointment to keep?" Turned back to Andro expecting a laugh and just got a head shake instead as he shoveled greasy noodles into his mouth. He thought he'd be hungry but the sight, the smell. It was just making him feel worse.

Two o'clock in the afternoon. Almost twelve hours. There was no way people hadn't noticed he was gone – he'd had a full docket. Meetings back to back for at least three cases, plus whatever SVU got up to over the course of the day. Carmen would've known something was up the moment she got in and he wasn't there before her – he was always there first, had the coffee on like he'd never left. And to be honest some days recently he _hadn't_ left. Just slept in the office, went home before court started just to shower, change clothes. Working like he was twenty years younger, but it wasn't his fault – no one was taking pleas. There was never enough evidence. Cases kept falling apart.

And here he was, smack in the middle of one.

He cleared his throat. "I need to use the bathroom," he said, as politely as he could manage despite the anger rising up that threatened to choke him. Had to clear his throat, repeated himself when they just ignored him.

"Eddie said he stays where he is," Ricky said when Andro got up.

"We can't just-"

"You think Fermín's going to be pleased when he finds out how you've treated me?" Barba interjected. Cleared his throat again, spat more blood on the floor and made his point in the process. Not a good sign that it hadn't stopped. Had to be coming from somewhere.

Ricky wasn't looking at him. "Alejandro…"

Andro bit his lip, eyes darting from Ricky to Barba, until he loped over, knelt behind Barba. There was a _snick_ of a knife being unfolded, and a pop as the plastic tie was cut. Barba couldn't help the sigh of relief as his arm sagged away from the chair, the tingle of pins and needles as blood resumed circulating properly through his hand. Mostly needles; his wrist was a gory mess when he lifted his arm slowly to rest on his thigh as Andro moved to the other tie.

"You can't take him upstairs," Ricky said, dark brows pulled in towards the center of his face as he sat with his take-out box of noodles in his lap, chopsticks half-full and forgotten. "What're you gonna do?"

"There's the mop bucket in the corner," Andro said as he sawed through the second tie. The jostling was shooting bolts of pain up his arm; Barba focused on flexing his fingers in his good hand. Just like getting a needle, it would be over before he knew it. Over before he knew it…

"C'mon." Andro gave his shoulder a shove; he hadn't felt the tie go. He raised his now-free arm slowly, hissing through his teeth when he saw the bruising, the white of his hand contrasted with the unhealthy scarlet that had bloomed around his wrist. Sprained for sure, maybe broken; he couldn't move his fingers no matter how hard he tried.

He nearly fell when he got up, his legs were so stiff, feet like cinderblocks.


	9. Gen, the one where Barba visits Rollins in the hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen-ish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing bad happens, I swear.

Barba hadn't gone to her baby shower, though he'd been invited. The card was in one of his desk drawers, mixed in with a load of other correspondence he'd meant to get to but had eventually called time of death on. Turned out letters had expiration dates.

"You're probably too busy, but just in case-" and she'd pressed the card into his hand. It was small, with a watercolor of a stork carrying a bundled up baby; he hadn't recognized the loopy handwriting inside.

"My mom picked them," Rollins said with a shrug.

"Cute," he'd said, opening it, staring at the time and date and wondering if there was a chance. With his schedule? Not likely. "Your mom?"

"Yeah, she's in town." She looked down, rubbed a hand over her belly. It had become a nervous tic with her over the last few months. "She moved here, actually," she said in a sudden rush. "To… Support me. So she says." The roll of her eyes was depressingly cynical.

"That's nice of her," he said, as neutrally as possible while recalling some of the things she'd said about her sister. What she'd done for her, and how there'd never been any mention of their mother. Not even once.

And there wasn't any sight of her now. There was the soft click of the IV pump, the hum of the light over Rollins's hospital bed, and, facing towards the window, Rollins herself. She looked paler than usual, but it might've been the lighting, or all the white – white sheets, white gown.

 

"How is she?"

Carisi had called him about the Hoda case, following up for his class, but he'd been subdued. Not his usual energetic self, and it wasn't hard to figure out why. He sighed, a crackle down the line that made Barba wince as he flipped through a brief. "Better. Could be-" a pause. "Better. That's what counts. Doc's still holding them for observation, something about- I dunno." Another sigh, gustier than the first. "I don't remember-" and if that wasn't the most blatant lie Carisi had ever told Barba didn't want to know what was. "I don't wanna speculate," he continued. "Something. But it's just a precaution, she said."

He tapped the tip of his pen on a notebook page, leaving little dots of ink, struggling to come up with something to say. Much as it pained him, Carisi was right – speculation was pointless. Even so, he couldn't help thinking that whatever it was had happened without warning.

Rollins had been sitting in that chair- What, a month ago? All pinks and yellows and full of life, scrunching her nose up when the baby kicked. "So demanding," she laughed. "Just like someone else I could name."

"You should visit her," Carisi said, interrupting his reminiscing. "I'm sure she'd appreciate it. It's pretty damn boring in there."

Barba looked down at the dusty wrapped box sitting on the floor behind his desk. Hadn't gone to her shower but he'd gotten her something, intent on giving it to her the next time he saw her. Whenever that would be. "I don't know…"

"Aw, don't gimme that, Counselor." Carisi's disgust was mild but audible. "You know she'd like to see you. I dunno _why_ , it's not like you're a barrel of laughs," and he was teasing him now.

Fine. That was fine. "Alright. If you insist."

"I _do_ insist. And take her some flowers," Carisi added. "She likes flowers."

 

Barba didn't need a lesson in etiquette from Sonny Carisi of all people, but he followed his advice anyway, and now felt utterly ridiculous. She was sleeping, and he was standing there with a bouquet of sunflowers with nowhere to put them. Other people had already brought her flowers – they were all lined up along the windowsill in baskets and small vases. _They'd_ remembered what to do with cut flowers.

He must've been thinking about leaving too loudly because she rolled her head against the pillow and opened her eyes, looked at him straight on. No expression at all for a moment, just a pale blankness he hadn't seen before that put a chill in him. Until a smile curled across her face slowly, bigger and bigger, and he felt himself smiling shyly back, feeling warmer.

"Hi," she said, sounding a little rusty as she pulled herself up against the slant of the bed. "I didn't expect to see _you_ anytime soon."

He drew nearer, tamping down his guilt, freezing in alarm when the bed abruptly began to buzz loudly and shift, and she laughed at him.

"Sorry, just- Don't want to be caught lying around on the job," she said, and now she was sitting up properly.

"I could use one of these," he said, carefully laying the bouquet on the blanket over her feet. Dragged his jacket off and folded it over the end of the bed, where all the buttons and lights were. "Looks comfy."

"Not sleeping well?" A glance told him her smile had shrunk profoundly. She was staring at him. At the dark circles around his eyes, more likely than not.

He shrugged, looked around for a chair and found one, wheeled it over to her bedside as she attempted to lean forward and hissed, outstretched fingers just brushing the edge of a petal. "Sorry, I didn't-" he picked them up and held them closer as she settled back against the bed, IV line dragging against the side of the bed as she rested her left hand protectively over her stomach.

"No, it's fine." She didn't take them from him, just touched the leaves, stroked the petals. "They're beautiful. Thanks."

He didn't say anything about how he'd stood in the flower shop and agonized, wondering what everyone else had gotten her, worrying about being too over the top or too cheap. Settled on sunflowers simply because they were yellow and cheerful and reminded him of her. And they weren't the least bit complicated. Rollins didn't need any more complications in her life.

"I forgot a vase," he said instead. Rude – he should've said _you're welcome_ , but something about how she was sitting there, soft and clean and bloodless, made him want to confess. To his own forgetfulness, or selfishness – how he'd rescheduled a meeting with an advocacy group just to see her. How he wanted to spend half an hour talking to someone whose concerns were beyond his control. How he was tired of worrying about… Everything.

"Barba." She lifted the flowers away from him, set them in her lap, and touched his empty hand. "It's okay."

Her fingers were cold, and the machine was still clicking away, a periodic flash of neon green light that caught his attention. Curiosity – that's why he couldn't look at her. Carisi had been joking, but he'd been right – he really wasn't very entertaining. He used to be more than capable of it; when had that-

"Hey." Rollins gave his hand a shake and snickered when he shook her hand lightly in irritated retaliation. " _I'm_ supposed to be the sadsack here, not you. Your job is to cheer me up, remember?"

 _I'm not a sadsack_ was on the tip of his tongue, but hadn't he just been sitting there brooding? "Are you sure? Carisi only told me to bring flowers, he didn't say anything about amusing you."

Her eyes widened. " _You?_ Willingly doing something _Carisi_ said?" She released his hand to slide it under her blanket, pull out her cellphone. "I've got to tell him you said that-"

"Oh no," he said, and pushed her hand down, the phone pressing against the flowers. "I'll never hear the end of it."

There was color back in her face, and some of her hair had come loose from its ponytail as she laughed at him. "Fine, fine." She covered his hand with her free one, the IV line following along like a lead. Was that what made her hands so cold? The saline? Or was it the room itself?

He shivered as her fingertips smoothed over the back of his hand, the sunflowers' leaves poking into his sleeve.

"It'll be our secret," she said.


End file.
